The Last Place You'd Look
by theorclair
Summary: An abuse case turns into an investigation where Sherlock, John, and all of Scotland Yard will learn stunning things about Sherlock's past and will change the relationship between him and John forever.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This was written for Sherlock BBC kink meme prompt: _During a disturbing case involving child sexual abuse victims, Lestrade notices Sherlock is...different. He's gentle, patient and understanding with these children, and in turn they completely trust him and is the only person they'll confide in. Sherlock also takes this case *very* personally and seems to understand far too much of what they are going through. The pieces fall together and Lestrade realizes with horror Sherlock was a victim himself - that's why he can't stand to be touched unexpectedly, why he flinches and has never had a relationship (or even sex) before John. This is later - reluctantly confirmed by Mycroft and John. Somehow Lestrade eventually gets Sherlock to open up about it. His abuser was never caught and Mycroft considers it his one 'failure' John/Sherlock please. Lestrade/Mycroft if you like. Extra twist (if want) - the child(ren)'s abuser is Sherlock's older abuser - who still sees the 'beautiful little Sherlock...'_

Beta'd by alicestrangeway. This is largely pre-slash. If you are following this on the kink meme please do not leave any spoilers in any reviews you leave.

John Watson was very used to seeing Lestrade and Donovan on a regular basis, but he didn't expect both of them to stride into St. Bart's without either Sherlock racing ahead or trailing behind them or that look on both of their faces that indicated they had to drag him out of work for some case. Donovan gestured to him to come forward, and when he raised an eyebrow she shook her head. "No, this isn't about the Freak this time. It's a bit different."

"What's the problem?" he asked as he stepped forward to meet them. If it didn't involve a case he couldn't imagine why they would be consulting him.

"It is a case," Lestrade told him, and when John looked at him with surprise he added "Not one we're involving Sherlock in, at least not yet. Sensitive subject matter."

"What do you need me for, then?"

Donovan took a deep breath and swallowed. _Whatever it is, it must be awful to disturb a member of the police_, he thought to himself before she began to speak. "Last night there was an admission from A&E. A nine year old girl was brought in by her father after he found her knickers stained with blood in the clothes hamper. An internal exam was done and there was damage to the genitals consistent with long-term sexual abuse. She claims nothing happened and no one's hurt her."

"Why do you need me, then? And why are you investigating this in the first place?" Child abuse was one of those things John never wanted to see, but he also knew it was disturbingly common. Why were the Yarders involved?

She swallowed again. "Because in the past ten years there have been almost thirty cases in the same area. Every time it's the same - the child says nothing happened. All of them were brought to the attention of the police by medical staff who documented their injuries. There's no pattern to the children other than them being all from the same area and persistent denial. However, the case that was called to our attention before this, a month or so ago, mentioned that he'd heard he was 'one of a hundred' and they were all in the same neighborhood. He clammed up right after that, but now the investigation is in place on the presumption that it's the same person in all the cases."

John felt his stomach turn to ice. "Has anyone gotten any DNA?" he managed to make himself ask.

"If you're talking about semen, no. Whoever he is isn't having full intercourse with them; there's only signs of digital penetration. Possibly oral sex, but no one's said anything about that." Lestrade sighed. "Of course anyone who's been doing this for that long is careful, or he'd have been caught by now. We've looked amongst past sexual offenders in the area, and most of them have been ruled out for one reason or another. I suspect he's not living nearby."

"Why do you need me?" he asked again.

"You're good with your patients," Lestrade said. "We'd like to take you to the ward and talk to the girl. If she talks it would be a big help. And you're the only doctor on the staff we've worked with in a criminal context."

"I'll see what I can do," John replied.

At this point Sarah poked her head into the room and asked "Is there a problem?"

"We need to borrow Dr. Watson for a while," Donovan told her. "There's a sensitive matter he might be able to help us with."

If Sarah was annoyed at not being given all the details, she didn't show it. "It's not very busy, so I can let him go for the rest of today. I hope you can get to the bottom of whatever this is." She ducked out of the room and the Yarders and John left the clinic and headed up to the wards above.


	2. Chapter 2

To John's surprise, the child patient he was going to see was in a private room. Just as he, Donovan, and Lestrade arrived at the door a man walked out of the room. He was tall, with thinning reddish-brown hair, glasses, and an expression of despair. "You're back here," he said to the officers flatly. He had a strong Irish accent. The man then fixed his eyes on John and his green eyes widened. "Who's that with you?"

"Mr. Aherne, this is Dr. Watson. We know that the doctors and nurses that attempted to question your daughter yesterday were unsuccessful, and we happen to have both worked with Dr. Watson before. He's going to talk to her."

Mr. Aherne shielded his eyes with his hand. "I know you're just trying to help, but can't it wait?"

Donovan put a hand on his shoulder. "The sooner we find out the name of the person who hurt your daughter, the sooner this will be over. I know I explained to you that whoever this man is he's been targeting children in that area for a long time. We just realized that the victims were connected, and if all this goes well your daughter will be the last one."

The words didn't seem to cheer Mr. Aherne. "She said she doesn't know. Maybe she really doesn't know."

"That's very unlikely," Donovan gently replied. "Is someone looking after your other two children?"

"No, they're watching telly in the lounge. I just couldn't leave them with someone. We have no living family…" He trailed off with a sigh. "Should I be in the room with Dr. Watson?"

"It would be better if you stayed outside. Children are sometimes reluctant to disclose in the presence of a parent." As Lestrade spoke, Mr. Aherne's eyes flicked down the hall, towards the lounge. "Why don't the three of us go to the lounge while Dr. Watson talks to Moira." The three of them walked down the hall then, Donovan still resting her hand on Mr. Aherne's shoulder.

Figuring that the sooner this was done the better, John stepped into the girl's room, glad they had at least mentioned her name. The girl in the room was sitting on the bed, one hand holding a book open on the bed, the other clutching a ragged teddy bear that looked far older than she was. She was heavyset, with lighter hair than her father, more a strawberry blond color, but when she looked up at him her eyes were an identical green. She regarded him with obvious suspicion, but no fear that he could see.

John figured he should be the one to break the silence, and he did so with a cheery "Hi. Are you Moira?" The girl nodded. She closed the book and brought the teddy bear to her chest with both hands. "What's your bear's name?"

"Brownie," she said softly. "He was me mum's."

"He looks well loved." That was enough for Moira's mouth to turn upwards for a second.

"What's your name?" she suddenly asked.

"I'm Dr. Watson."

Moira sighed in an exasperated child way. "No, your first name."

"John."

"Me dad's name is John."

"Really?" He smiled at her. "Is he a Jonathan or just a John?"

"Just a John." She looked up towards his face. "Do I have to have another needle? Or a pill or more stitches?"

Anger roared in his throat as he reminded himself why she would need stitches in the first place, but he kept it down. "No. I'd just like to talk to you." He noticed then the table by her bed not only had several books but also a picture of a large dog surrounded by Mr. Aherne, Moira, and who he assumed had to be her siblings. "Is that your family?" She nodded in reply. "What are your brother and sister named?"

"Dierdre and Kieran."

He looked again at the photo. Kieran looked a bit like Sherlock, with black shaggy hair, although his was straight. Dierdre was clearly the youngest; she still had a round baby face, surrounded by bright red hair. "That's your dog in the picture?"

"His name is Rory. He's a bullmastiff and he's real big and strong." Moira's voice glowed with pride. "He likes me best. He sleeps in my room."

"You must miss him," John murmured, and she nodded.

"He's just a baby. He's not even two. Dierdre's too little to walk him and Kieran lets him pull on lead. I should be home to look after him."

"Hopefully you can go home in a few days." It was clear that the girl was feeling more at ease in his presence, but he didn't feel the time was right to bring up the issue of why she was in the hospital. "Is Rory named after Amy's husband on Doctor Who?"

This time when she grinned it stayed on her face. "Yeah. It's my favorite show. Kieran and Dad like it too but Dierdre doesn't like it. I think she's too little for it."

"How old is your sister?"

"Six. Kieran's nine like me. We're twins. I'm the oldest." By this point Moira looked more like an average child than a victim of a crime. Perhaps it was still too early to ask the big questions, but John was aware his time was limited. Her guard was clearly down.

"Do you know why you're in hospital, Moira?" John tried to sound nonchalant, like he was only asking about the weather.

The smile melted off her face. "I got cut. Needed stitches." She clutched the bear closer to her chest.

"Yes, I know you did. But how did you get cut?" He suspected at this point he wasn't going to get any further than anyone else did.

"I dunno. Just happened. Don't remember." Moira broke eye contact and turned to stare at the floor.

"Did anyone cut you?" he persisted.

"No," she responded in a whisper. "No one did anything. Nothing happened."

While he thought it was certainly possible that she'd blocked out the whole experience and really had no idea who her abuser was, John thought it was more likely she knew exactly who it was and simply didn't want to tell. He tried to imagine, without success, the sort of threat hanging over her head that made telling someone such an impossible task. Then he remembered that none of the victims had talked, and that was enough to turn his stomach to ice again. "All right. I just wanted to ask," he gently said and left the room.

Waiting outside of the room were Mr. Aherne, his other two children, Lestrade, and Donovan. Both of the Yarders looked at him hopefully and their faces fell identically when he just shook his head. Mr. Aherne appeared to not have noticed this exchange and asked him anxiously: "Is my Moira all right? Did she tell you anything?"

"No," John responded. "I talked to her a bit about other things but when I got around to asking she said no one hurt her. From the look on her face it was fairly apparent that she knew perfectly well who it was, and wasn't going to say anything."

He sighed. "Thank you anyway for trying, Dr. Watson. I'll go in to see her now; it's almost supper and I want us to eat together." Mr. Aherne stepped into the room, the other two children following him, and the Yarders headed for the exit.

John fell into step with them and asked: "Not to be rude, but did you consider it might be the father?" He thought this was unlikely; Mr. Aherne seemed like a doting parent and was reacting to everything with understandable horror, but family had to be ruled out first.

"That's unlikely. He told the doctor in A&E that as soon as he saw bloody underwear in the hamper he packed all three kids into a cab and headed for the hospital. If he was the perpetrator it'd be a bit odd if he drew attention to what was going on so publicly," Donovan said. "She's from the same area as all the other victims, and they've only lived there a year. Moved from County Donegal. No family members to rule out; Mrs. Aherne died a few years ago and as he said they have no living relatives."

"It's been considered, John, and while it hasn't been ruled out since there's no one who she says has done it, but it's not the working theory." Lestrade seemed a bit choked up, and John remembered he had small children of his own. "Whoever did it, he's clever."

"If you're all so stuck why don't you just –" The sentence was halfway out of John's mouth before he even realized he was saying it.

"John, we all know Sherlock is very good at solving crimes, but he's… harsh, you know that. I don't think it would be best to have him confront a suffering child." Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look. "You know that as well as anyone. If we wind up with some description, a name, anything that he could work with without talking to children, that would be different."

John knew he was right, but he also had a nagging feeling that if there really was a dangerous predator on the loose with at least thirty victims NSY needed all the help they could get, Sherlock included. He'd never even seen Sherlock question a child before, so there was no past experience to rely on.

After that, an uncomfortable silence fell between the three of them, and they did not talk as they took the lift down to the ground floor and headed towards the exit. Donovan did tell him "Thank you anyway, John," before they separated, and John was left only with his thoughts as he hailed a cab and headed home. It seemed like a very long ride.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as John got out of the cab and into 221B, he paused to take a few deep breaths and collect himself. It wasn't that he'd never seen this sort of thing before; child abuse was depressingly common, no matter where you chose to work. You got accustomed to it. But you never could get used to it. At least, he didn't. With most medical matters, you eventually learned to turn off horror and just work on whatever it was. He'd seen children who had been badly hurt in accidents, children with fatal diseases, infants with cot death. He'd been in the army, for Christ's sake; he'd had seen people blown up on the battlefield! So why was this the one thing he couldn't stop being horrified about? Maybe it was because it wasn't a matter of sheer chance. Most illnesses struck at random, like being hit by lightning. There was no way of predicting it, or anything one could do differently. But something like this only happened because someone had wanted it to.

After a minute or so, he felt calm down enough to ascend the steps and unlock the door. When he entered, the air in the flat was heavy with the smell of formaldehyde, and knowing that Sherlock was still at one of his strange experiments was improbably reassuring. John even managed to crack a smile when he saw Sherlock inside alternately typing on his laptop and observing a set of animal organs spread on the counter (thankfully, all of them were resting on pieces of wax paper).

"Which patient was the one that upset you so badly? And those are from a cow, not a person, so don't ask Molly why she let me have someone's internal organs. Not that it should be a problem in the first place; if someone's organs were taken out that means they were either autopsied or were an organ donor and even if neither were true they don't need them anymore anyway." Sherlock didn't even look up from what he was doing as he said this, and for some reason it felt so oddly comforting that John almost laughed.

Sherlock looked up then, giving him a half-smile. "I hope that makes up for whatever bothered you there."

"Not exactly, but thank you anyway." John dropped his wallet and keys on the table and sat down in the nearest chair.

"What was it?"

"You mean you can't tell just from looking at me?" He realized that had came out much more harshly than he'd intended, and added, "Sorry. It was just…that bad."

"It had to be something big to upset you like that."

"You're right. I had to talk to this little girl, nine years old. She was admitted through A&E for vaginal lacerations. Obviously sexually abused but refused to say who it was." John was surprised to see Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, almost as if he was horrified as well. Maybe he was. Murder was one of those things most people could imagine the motivation for, but molesting a child definitely wasn't.

"Why did they want you to talk to her? You couldn't have admitted her," he finally said.

"Lestrade and Donovan asked me to," John responded without thinking.

"Lestrade and Donovan? Why did they call Scotland Yard for an abuse case?" Sherlock's voice was strangely flat, as though he was trying to bite back a flood of anger. Was it because they hadn't bothered to ask him to help them? He really couldn't imagine another reason; Sherlock thought of crimes as puzzles to be solved, not as emotional events.

"Apparently there's been a lot of victims from the area of London she lives in. There was a case a month or so ago where a boy mentioned he'd been one of a lot of victims, so now there is an investigation on the presumption it's the same perpetrator in all those cases."

"How long does this go back?" His voice was still flat, but there was a storm beginning to brew in his eyes. "Do they know when it might have begun?"

"Ten years ago or so. They've checked out all the past offenders in the area, and apparently they've all been ruled out. None of the victims have talked – in fact, they all insist nothing happened."

"But obviously something did." There was no mistaking it; he now sounded distinctly angry.

"Yes. There's no other explanation for the injuries. The only good thing is that if whoever it is doesn't live in the area, Moira – that's the girl's name – could possibly go home with her father. We don't want to send her home to the same thing." Unable to help himself, John let out a sigh of frustration.

"Do the Yarders have any leads?" He moved away from the collection of cow parts and stood behind John's chair.

"If no victim talks there aren't going to be any, obviously." John turned in the chair and, with a sinking feeling, spotted that "happy day, I have a case now!" look in Sherlock's eyes. "And no, they're not going to call you. So don't start thinking about it."

"Why not?" This was beyond an angry tone. It was undiluted fury.

"They said it was too sensitive a matter. You know that you can be…abrasive…" He trailed off, unable to continue his line of thought.

"Will Moira still be in hospital tomorrow?"

"Sherlock! You can't just walk in there and start questioning her! Anyway, it's a Saturday, and I imagine her family will be there most of the day." John wished he hadn't brought the subject up. He couldn't imagine how Moira would feel being questioned by someone who never bothered with typical social niceties.

"I can most certainly do that. I am going to do that. My only question is whether you will be coming with me or not." Determination mixed with the fury, this time.

"Why are you so invested in this, anyway? You don't know the family and it's not even very exciting by your usual standards." Maybe by changing the subject he could get Sherlock off the idea of barging in there himself. It was unlikely to work, but he had to try.

"I am going there," he merely repeated. "If you are so worried I will traumatize the child in question, you may stay with me while I speak with her. If you think I have crossed a line, you may remove me, although I don't think that will be needed."

_Well, if he's so determined to work on this, I might as well run damage control, _John thought to himself. "All right. I will come with you and usher you out if you cross that line." Which would probably be after about five seconds.

Neither spoke for several minutes after that, and the silence hung in the air like the smell of the formaldehyde. Sherlock was the one who broke the silence, surprisingly enough, saying, "People always assume."

"Are you referring to the Yarders this time, or people in general?" John dared to ask.

"Both," he curtly responded. "Take away your assumptions and there are more places to work with and look in." After that apparent non-sequitur, he walked back towards the counter and started working just like he had before, like there had been no significant conversation in between. If this was a preview of things to come, John was not looking forward to tomorrow. But the die had been cast; there was nothing to do but wait. And perhaps that strange fury Sherlock had shown before would make this somehow work.


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson was usually a good sleeper. He'd learned to sleep in all sorts of less than desirable conditions, and had figured out all sorts of ways to catch up on lost sleep after, say, being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for a case. (Or a shooting, or a patient needing care, or the loss of the skull or the remote control.) He rarely took more than a few minutes to fall asleep; after all, you could never tell when you would be able to sleep next. Knowing all that, he was still unsurprised when he finally went to bed and sleep simply did not come. It wasn't that patients never bothered him. He'd seen all sorts of disturbing things before, and while they frequently reoccurred in his nightmares, they never interfered with his ability to fall asleep. Truthfully, he wasn't thinking about the patient so much as what would happen tomorrow. Since it was a weekend, he expected Mr. Aherne would be spending the whole day at his daughter's bedside. He seemed mild-mannered enough, but John felt that might change if some strange man made his daughter cry. Sherlock was bad enough dealing with adults, and Moira Aherne struck him as a rather shy child. On the other hand, Sherlock had promised that John could stay in the room the whole time and had permission to drag him out if he was too inappropriate. And he had seemed angry about what had happened. That wasn't too surprising; even hardened criminals and veteran members of the police force hated child abusers. Hell, even Sherlock didn't have his typical excitement about the case. Perhaps he would be better at this than John thought. But if Sherlock attempted to fake any emotions to get something out of her, all bets were off.

The day didn't start well. John hadn't got more than an hour or so of sleep, and was only feeling half awake after he had three cups of industrial grade coffee. Sherlock wasn't bouncing around like he usually did, but he hovered in the background of anything John tried to do before they headed off to the hospital, staring intensely without blinking. (At least John had convinced him that Moira wouldn't like someone coming in to question her at six in the morning, nor would anyone, so it would be better to wait until noon or so.)

When they finally did get out the door, John's attempts at small talk were met with a distant stare, and as a result the cab ride felt even longer than the one he had taken yesterday. Once they were at the hospital proper, Sherlock strode through the doors, past the admissions desk, and towards the lift, as if he were so important that no one would even think to question what he was doing. Of course, the lift was delayed for no reason anyone could see, and John (who knew better than to try any small talk this time) let his eyes wander down the hall and towards a suture room with an open door, where a woman with dark hair was saying irritably, "Look, it didn't hurt, so I didn't realize it was that bad, okay?" as a gash in her arm was stitched up. He never saw who she was talking to, as the lift finally came and they ascended to the correct floor.

Sherlock, if he had been by himself, would have probably just barged into the room without knocking. Luckily, since John was there, he got to the door seconds before him and pointedly knocked twice. "Come in," he heard Mr. Aherne say. He opened the door and he and Sherlock stepped in. The room seemed a great deal cheerier today – partially due to the smell of fish and chips that still lingered from what John assumed had been the meal Mr. Aherne had brought in, and partially because Mr. Aherne himself was sitting in a chair by his daughter's bedside, reading a book to his children. Dierdre and Kieran were sitting in the two remaining chairs.

"'I don't think they have restaurants at the end of the universe,' said George. 'We're not…' Oh, hello Dr. Watson. I didn't expect to see you again," Mr. Aherne looked up from the book in surprise. "I hope you're not here for a bad reason."

"Oh, no, not really," he quickly reassured him. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He works with Scotland Yard on occasion," (John didn't think this was the time for the "world's only consulting detective" explanation) "tries to help them on cases, and he'd like to talk to Moira."

"I suppose I'll have to leave the room again." It was not a question.

"It would be easier for your daughter, Mr. Aherne." Sherlock's voice was so quiet it took John a second to realize he had said something. He didn't sound faux-empathetic, like he had so many times before. In fact, he sounded like he truly felt sorry for the man.

"Can we go down to the gift shop again Dad?" Dierdre asked, tossing her red ponytail behind her back.

"We've already been there twice. I want to hear the end of the book," protested Kieran.

"I'll finish the book when we come back. A walk would do us all good even if we don't stop at the gift shop." Mr. Aherne tucked a bookmark inside the book, placed it on the table, and rose from his chair. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Moira," he said. Moira reached out her arms and they hugged. He kissed her forehead, took his children by hand, and walked out of the room into the hall.

Moira was still clutching the old bear with one hand, like it hadn't moved since yesterday. "Is he your friend?" she asked, pointing in Sherlock's general direction.

"He's my flatmate," John replied, uncertain how to answer the question.

"But is he your friend?" she persisted.

"Yes," he said. After all, it was true. Mostly.

Sherlock then came to sit in the chair Mr. Aherne had been sitting in. He took in the framed photograph at her bedside and asked "Is your dog allowed to sleep in your bed, or does he have to sleep on the floor of your room?"

"He's supposed to sleep on the floor. But I like having him in my bed." She smiled, and John was impressed despite himself. He hadn't earned a smile that quickly.

"Doesn't he chew on your stuffed toys?"

Moira shook her head. "No. He likes balls and rope toys but doesn't chew on my stuffed toys. They're all on the other side of the bed anyway." She paused. "Do you have a dog?"

"I wanted one when I was your age, but I never did have one. My mother and father didn't care for pets." John had moved during the conversation and was now on the other side of the room, so Sherlock couldn't see his eyes widen. Normally Sherlock was as tightly wound as a magnet and about as expressive. Even after living with him for over a year John still couldn't tell you much about his past. Why was this girl, of all people, getting him to open up? In fact, his whole appearance was softer, less imposing angles and more warm empathy. The really astonishing thing was that the empathy was real, as far as John could tell. He was genuinely concerned for Moira Aherne.

She was now frowning. "But you're all grown up. Why don't you have a dog now?"

"I've never had a chance to have one."

"Is it because you live in a flat? We live in one now. Dad says it's only for a while. He's working hard. He bakes." She shifted the bear to her opposite arm. "He works at home too, but once I get home from school Rory's my job."

"So he's not away from home a lot." When Sherlock got another shake of the head in response, he went on. "Did he bring you to the hospital?"

"Yeah," Moira said softly. "I was sleeping and he woke us all up and said we had to go to the doctor now." She shivered. "Then they saw me and Kieran and Dierdre downstairs and they said I needed stitches and I got a shot and then they stitched them up. Then I came up here."

"He brought you your bear? And the books and the picture?"

"I had Brownie with me when I woke up. He asked me if I wanted anything at home and I wanted some books and the picture so he brought them here." She had moved closer to the edge of the bed, closer to where he was sitting.

"Is he still working?"

At this point John was convinced that he wasn't going to verbally savage Moira, although he couldn't tell what on Earth he was leading up to. He'd gotten her to be chattier than John himself the previous day, and that was in itself a success.

"No, he's here all day. He only leaves to get Kieran and Dierdre from school and when he has to go to bed."

Sherlock looked briefly at the picture, and then back at Moira. "Has anyone else come to visit you?"

"No," she whispered.

"He's worried about you."

"I know he's worried. He was crying when they brought me up here. He said I was going to be all right, though." Moira glanced at the bear in her arms. "Did you have a bear when you were little?"

"I had a bee. A big stuffed bumblebee." Sherlock gave a small smile, as though he was recalling a fond memory.

"My bear was me mum's. She gave him to me when I was a baby.  
My brother got me dad's old stuffed elephant. We're twins."

"And your mother died?" (John wondered how he'd managed to figure that out, and resolved to ask him later.)

"She had the break in her lung. It got all clogged up. Me dad cried then too, and that was the last time I'd seen him cry before."

"So you miss her."

A nod. "But she's in heaven now with God." Her voice had a tinge of sadness.

"Your dad is all your family? Besides your brother and sister, I mean."

"He and me mum didn't have any parents growing up. They were both in care."

"I see." He crossed his arms over his chest. As he leaned backward in the chair, Mr. Aherne poked his head in the room.

"Is it all right for me to be back in here now? Dierdre and Kieran are getting restless."

"It's fine," Sherlock said as he stood up. "I think I've asked enough questions for one day."

"Will you come back?" Moira piped up. John and Mr. Aherne both shared surprised looks. "I'd like to see Mr. Holmes again," she added.

"Once you're out of hospital I can come see you at home. I want to meet your Rory." He smiled warmly at her.

"And I can show you all my toys. I don't have any bees though, not stuffed ones. I have an insect book though."

"I'm looking forward to it." Sherlock turned and left the room, coat swishing behind him.

"Thank you, Mr. Aherne. I'm sure we can come visit again once Moira's out of here. Hopefully this will all be helpful." John shook his hand before he settled back into the same chair he sat in before, picking up the book he had been reading before.

John shut the door behind him as he left and only heard a trace of the conversation in the room. "Now where were we? Oh, I see. 'We're not at the end of the universe yet, said Eric…'"

To his surprise, Sherlock hadn't just left him behind and was standing at the end of the hall. "Was any of that useful? I'll admit I was wrong about you being too abrasive, but it didn't seem like you got anything to help catch the guy who did this." John wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say, but it came out before he could think about it.

"What did I say before about not assuming?" Sherlock lightly responded. "On the contrary, it was a very helpful conversation."

"Well, what did you learn?" He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice.

"One, the father is innocent. He didn't do anything and he doesn't know who the perpetrator is. You saw how he gave her a hug and a kiss before he left the room. She was the one to initiate that; therefore she is comfortable with him and has an implicit trust that he won't cross her boundaries. He also didn't let the presence of two adults stop him. If he was truly the guilty party, he would fall into one of two stereotypical patterns. He would either avoid touching his children with the false perception that any physical affection from him would mark him as a perpetrator, or he would pile on unnecessary physical affection as if to show anyone who loved their children that much wouldn't abuse them. Also, he has restructured his day to be with his daughter as much as possible, irrationally thinking that if he is with her all the time the abuser will not be able to further harm her. If he knew who it was, or even had an idea of who it might be, he would have said something about a suspect because his fear is genuine. It's likely someone the father doesn't know or only knows slightly. Two, one of the reasons she is refusing to name who abused her is because the abuser has threatened her family if she tells anyone who it is. Young children don't ask for photos of their family the way an adult would if hospitalized. Parents are usually given more leniency in regard to visiting their children and a child wants something to do in hospital, not something of purely symbolic value. This threat is very real to her because her mother is dead and both of her parents were in care as children. While her father has not told her too many tales about his childhood, she has managed to get the general impression that he was emotionally neglected and is certain that would be her fate if she does speak. The perpetrator is aware of Mr. Aherne's past and is exploiting that. Three, the abuser does not live in the area, as the Yard correctly surmised, but has regular access to the area, probably work-related. Because of that, the parents of the victims know little about the perpetrator. Four, she either thinks her abuser will enter their flat at night or has already done so. She lets her dog sleep on the bed because he is her protection, and I am willing to guess that she's clung to her father recently and spent a lot of time following him, since the abuser knows better than to act when he's around his daughter. Her teddy bear is a gift from her mother, and she's taken to carrying him everywhere because in her mind he has magical properties to protect her." He paused to take a breath.

John was completely certain that Sherlock could have gone on about this for a great deal longer, but when he heard, "You brought him here, of all places?" and turned towards the sound of the voice to see a very indignant Gregory Lestrade, he was startled enough to not resume what he had been saying. All John could think was that he hoped this would not be considered his fault.


	5. Chapter 5

"Lestrade. Good to see you," Sherlock had managed to recover from his surprise and change subjects like this was just some chance encounter between the two of them. "I hope you heard at least some of what I was saying before; I hate to repeat myself."

"Did you bring him here? What possessed you to do that?" Lestrade was staring at John as if in shock.

"I didn't bring him here," he managed to say.

"While it might be convenient to blame John for my presence here, this was entirely my idea. Last night he mentioned he'd been involved in a disturbing case where the Yard had been called in, and I told him I was coming here. After attempting to talk me out of doing so he insisted he accompany me as to not cause further trauma to the child." He crossed his arms over his chest. "She asked if I would be coming back, so I assume that nothing of the sort occurred."

Lestrade gaped. "She asked you to come back?"

"She asked if we could talk again once she was out of the hospital, and her father was willing to allow that." He gave a smug grin and John felt momentarily relieved that he was apparently back to his normal self. While it had been good to see Sherlock was able to question a child about sensitive subjects it had also been somewhat surreal. He never bothered to try to get along with anyone before, so what made this situation different? Maybe he was one of those people who didn't consider children part of the human race, bad from most people but from Sherlock that would be a twisted compliment. "Now, what are you doing here? Have you come to question the child again and in the process get various forms of denial and stonewalling? That's all you'll ever get, by the way."

"I was actually coming to take a statement from the father. It hasn't been done yet and for the last few days we've been more concerned with questioning Moira than Mr. Aherne." Lestrade's voice was tight.

John jumped into the conversation. "Right now he's reading a book to his children. I think we should give them an hour or so together before we bother them again. He needs the quiet time." Trying to defuse the situation, he added, "Have you eaten already? Neither of us have, and getting a meal would be a good way to pass an hour or so." While Sherlock was probably uninterested in eating, it had been a long time since breakfast.

"No, I figured I'd eat once I was done questioning him. I suppose we'd be leaving the hospital? Can't imagine the food in the cafeteria is much better than what they serve on the patient trays," Lestrade chuckled.

"There are a few good places right nearby. Chinese, Indian, fish and chips, sandwiches?" Truthfully, John rarely ate at most of the places in the area, since he usually picked up something on the way home if he hadn't bothered to bring something with him, but all of the places he was thinking of he had eaten at at least once and they were, if not gourmet, far better than cafeteria food.

"Sandwiches are fine. I don't want something deep-fried and I ate Indian yesterday." He glanced at Sherlock, who had receded into the background. "Are you going to come eat with us?" While Lestrade didn't add, "You never eat when you're on a case, and is this a case, right?" it was fairly obvious that was what he was implying.

"I'll come. I want to ask the father a few questions myself. He doesn't know the perpetrator – he may have met them once or twice, but he isn't familiar with them – but he could have some important information." His voice was flat again, and John was reminded of last night and Sherlock's oddly restrained anger.

"So you haven't figured out who the man is by some mark on the girl's shoes or something?" Lestrade snapped. There was a slight pause before he shook his head, looking abashed. "No, I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Cases like this are always upsetting."

"No, I haven't," Sherlock responded, still sounding flat, like he hadn't heard the apology.

"Shall we go and eat?" John interjected. He wasn't sure if this exchange was going to lead into a fight, but he didn't want to find out.

The meal was not exactly torture, but it was certainly one of the most uncomfortable meals John had ever eaten. Sherlock came along, to be true, but he merely sat with them and stared off into the distance while he and Lestrade tried to make awkward small talk. It would have been easier if he had at least been pretending to pay attention, but he wasn't even looking in their direction. Lestrade seemed to feel just as he did, as after about ten minutes he gave up the pretense of conversation and they just ate their turkey sandwiches as fast as they could manage. (Sherlock didn't order anything himself, but he did steal the cucumber off of John's plate. That was fine with him; he didn't particularly care for cucumber anyway.)

It took forty-five minutes for them to be seated, order, eat, pay the bill, and head back to the hospital, and that was enough for them. When Lestrade knocked on the door of the room, Mr. Aherne was no longer reading the book and his children were all sitting on the bed, watching some cartoon. "Mr. Aherne, can I have a word with you outside?" Lestrade asked him. "We'll just be outside the door, so your children should be all right."

"I'll be there in a second." He lifted himself up from his chair and glanced briefly at the bed before leaving the room. "I suppose you want to take a statement," he said when the door was closed.

"Yes, but Sherlock here wants to ask you a few questions," Lestrade said. "I'll try to make this easy as possible."

"All right. I knew you were going to take a statement because they always do that on the police procedurals." He pointed towards an alcove near the lift with a few chairs and a round table. "We can sit there, since you can still see the door from there."

John, Lestrade, and Mr. Aherne all sat down around the table. There were only three chairs, but Sherlock didn't look like he was going to sit down, and instead began to circle the path from the alcove to the room door. Lestrade put some papers down on the table. "I'll be taking notes." Mr. Aherne nodded. "Some of these are silly questions, but they're for the record."

"All right."

"Can you give me your name?" He tapped his pencil on the table.

"John Aherne."

"Your age?"

"Thirty-four."

"And your occupation?"

"I'm a caterer. I currently work out of my flat. It's with a larger company, but I'm responsible for a lot of their smaller work, mostly in London."

"And you're a widower?"

"Yes. My wife, Nora, passed away three years ago." Mr. Aherne looked like he could say a great deal more on the subject, but did not.

"You have no living family?"

"If I do they're not aware of me. My mother drank and I was taken into care when I was small. Either no one could take me or no one was able to. Nora was in care because she was abandoned when she was an infant."

"Now, in your own words, tell me why you brought your children to A&E on Thursday night."

"Well, it was around ten in the evening and I realized I hadn't done any laundry for a week and it was piling up. I'd done a lot of cooking that week; small parties for little shops and a few things for St. Bart's and the meetings they have. I'd put the children to bed earlier, so I figured it would be a good time to get it done." He took a deep breath and swallowed. "I emptied out all the hampers and went down to the basement with everything. I started to sort the laundry and as I was taking some clothes from one of them I saw red on a pair of knickers. From the size, they had to be Moira's. This probably sounds silly, but my first thought was that she'd started menstruating. But I thought for a second and I figured if she had she'd have said something to me about it. And then it occurred to me that it might be from some damage or a tumor or something."

"I suppose that means you've had the sex talk with your older children?" John said. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to say anything, but he hadn't been ordered to leave, so he might as well try to help.

Mr. Aherne chuckled, the first time John had seen him look anything close to happy. "Dr. Watson, you must not have children. There's never one talk. You deal with those things as they come up. We've had quite a few conversations on the subject, and I knew she was aware it would happen to her. She'd seen a commercial for Tampax a few months back, and she asked me what it was about. I told her the truth, as much as I thought she could understand. I don't believe in lying to children."

Lestrade had been writing while this exchange took place, and as soon as Mr. Aherne fell silent he looked up again. "Let's get back on the subject. What did you do after that?"

"I went upstairs and woke up the children. I told them we had to go see the doctor. None of them seemed to like that, but they got up and went with me. After I got them all in the cab I first thought that it might not have been some sort of… accidental injury." He covered his eyes with one hand and choked back a sob. "That was something I didn't want to think about, so I didn't ask any of the children about it. We got to A&E and I told the woman at the desk I'd found blood on my daughter's underwear. A few doctors came and got them all and they all were given an exam. About ten minutes later one of the doctors came back to see me and she told me that Kieran and Dierdre were both apparently fine but Moira had some… lacerations." Tears were beginning to form in his eyes. "She told me that Moira would have to get a few stitches and I could be there when it was done. I went into the treatment room and Moira was upset; she told me they'd had to give her an injection to numb her up. I asked her if she knew how she'd got hurt and she told me she didn't know she'd been hurt. She cried when she was stitched up but she didn't say anything else. They had a few people who talked to her after that; Sergeant Donovan came in and there were some social workers. As far as I know, she said the same thing every time. After they talked to her I asked her again and she said she didn't know and she wanted to go home."

During this whole exchange, Sherlock hadn't said a word. He'd continued his pacing, and from where he was he could clearly hear everything that was being said, but he didn't add anything himself. It didn't look like he was focusing on anything in particular; maybe he was just thinking silently.

"All right, and I know you said you have no living family, but is there anyone else you know that might be capable of something like this? Anyone in the area that seems too fond of children? Some man who's always around but doesn't appear to be doing anything? Strange behavior from a father or a relative of one of Moira's friends?" Lestrade hadn't broken his gaze on Mr. Aherne since he had begun the tale of the trip to A&E.

"No. No one. I'm not familiar with enough people in the area to know anyone well, though." He paused to swallow. "Moira's shy and she's had some trouble since we moved from Donegal. She's had trouble making friends, so there isn't anyone that you could focus on the family members."

"Does she ever go out without supervision?"

"She walks our dog every day, and she sometimes goes to the little playground nearby. I know it's different in the city, but she's nine and she should have some freedom."

"Has she been spending a lot of time with you recently?" Sherlock's baritone voice was surprising enough that all three of them turned to look at him.

"Now that you mention it, she's following me around the house a lot the last few months. She's asking me to read her something before bed, too. Since she hadn't made friends I thought she was just lonely." Mr. Aherne looked slightly puzzled, like he hadn't thought about this before.

"And the dog sleeps in her room?"

"Yes, he always has, even before we moved here. He's supposed to sleep on the floor but recently she's been letting him sleep in her bed. I've told her he's not allowed up there but she hasn't listened."

"You live on the ground floor?"

"Yes, we do. The doors are locked when we're at home though."

"And your wife died of a pulmonary embolism?"

Mr. Aherne stared at Sherlock without saying anything for a minute. "Yes," he finally replied. "She'd gone to work; she was a fitness instructor. I can do most of my work from home, so that's where I was. She was pregnant, twelve weeks pregnant. She collapsed after arriving. The doctors said there was nothing that could have prevented it because she hadn't had any of the symptoms."

"Thank you for your information." And just like that, he walked away and stood impatiently at the lifts again. "John, we should get going," he added, and John went over to stand with him. As they got on the lift, they saw Mr. Aherne and Lestrade shake hands and Mr. Aherne scribbled something on a piece of paper that was probably his mobile number.

"We'll have to ask Lestrade for his number so you can talk to Moira again," John said. Sherlock didn't respond, and in fact said nothing through the walk downstairs or the cab ride home. He wasn't texting or otherwise occupied; he looked lost in thought.

"A bumblebee? You had a stuffed bumblebee?" John wasn't sure why this seemed to be the strangest thing he'd heard today, but it was.

"Yes."

"Who gave you that?"

"My archenemy."

"Do you still have it?" John couldn't wrap his mind around Mycroft giving anyone a stuffed toy, much less his brother.

"It got taken away," he tersely replied. John wanted to ask why, but he knew better than to try, and merely stared out the window. Rain was spitting down from the sky, casting a dull sheen on the ground. The sound was the perfect dismal soundtrack for the two people who were in the same space, and yet both alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade paid them a visit the next day, even though it was a Sunday. Mrs. Hudson must have let him in, as there was no knock, just his sudden appearance in the doorway. He was carrying what looked to be a police file, one several inches thick. John was glad to see him, even if his presence wasn't expected. Sherlock had spent most of yesterday pacing and glowering at nothing in particular. That was especially strange seeing as he had a case, which normally gave him a manic kind of cheerfulness that took days to fade. He hadn't done any pacing today, but had instead perched himself sideways in a chair and continued the glowering. John had tried to engage him in conversation a few times but after he was met with stares and non-answers he figured it would be better to just let him sit and mope.

"Just so you know, none of the other Yarders know I'm here or that you are helping. I intend to keep it that way; although you were much better talking to the girl yesterday than anyone would believe I think the others still need to be eased into the idea." Lestrade put the file down on the table and sat down in a nearby chair. This was enough to break Sherlock out of his stupor; he got out of the chair in an awkward twist and headed to the table. He didn't sit down, but he did pick up a few pages from the file and began to examine them.

"That's probably a good idea for now. Tea?" John figured someone had to be hospitable here, and he'd just heated up a kettle full of water.

"Please," said Lestrade. "It's cold out there. Maybe it'll even snow."

"February is the cruelest month," John commented as he got tea for the both of them. He knew it wasn't a correct quote, but it was apt enough to make Lestrade chuckle.

"Who is this?" Sherlock suddenly said, holding up a photo of a dark-haired boy.

"Good to know you're back amongst the living," John said as he sat down and took a sip of tea.

Sherlock ignored the comment. "Is he one of the children you think was involved?"

"He's actually the child who started our investigation. His name is Phillip Rodgers and he's thirteen years old. Lives with his mother, who works all the time and doesn't appear too involved in his life. Father is out of the picture, whether he's dead or just left isn't known." Lestrade sipped at his tea. "This is very good, John, you have an eye for the nice tea brands. Anyway, he was brought into the clinic here with a broken arm and a black eye. He said he'd been in a fight, but was very reluctant to say anything more. He claimed he'd been wrestling with a friend and his arm got twisted then. There was a spiral fracture on the arm, but it looked a lot more serious than something you'd usually see in playful wrestling. The doctor who saw him – incidentally, that was your friend Sarah, John – was sure there was more to it and did a complete physical examination. There was bruising on the inner thighs, and she was quick enough to realize it was the sort of bruising you'd see in forced sex. He didn't admit to any sexual contact, however. She was smart about it though, and got to talking to him, just asking ordinary questions. When he was off guard enough, she asked if the person who'd broken his arm had hurt anyone else, and he said that he was one of a hundred here."

"He didn't mention anything about the abuser?" Sherlock looked him directly in the eye.

"Other than that, no. The examination had several other nonspecific indications of sexual abuse, but he wouldn't say who'd done it. He did admit his arm was broken because 'someone got angry' but no word about that person." Lestrade sighed. "The mother didn't appear too concerned. She was mostly worried that she'd have to stay home from work. We did manage to talk to a few of his teachers, and they say he's the somber type. No friends and doesn't do well in school. All of that makes him a prime target for a predator who promises he'll be his best friend."

Sherlock put the photo down on the table. John picked it up. Phillip Rodgers did not look like a happy child. His black hair hung over his eyes and his mouth seemed fused in a scowl. For thirteen he still looked very boyish, his face still round like a child's, no sign of puberty molding it at all. If what his teachers said was right, and he had no siblings or friends and a distant mother, he was indeed the type of child an abuser would look for.

"Are you sure he was referring to sexual abuse in his remark?" Of course Sherlock would ask that. He had said a few days ago people always assume, and it was apparent that he was trying not to.

"Oh, yes, one more thing. When he came in with his arm broken he indicated he'd been sexually active. Said so right on the form. Wouldn't say who he'd been active with, of course." He stared down at his tea. "That is what prompted the doctor to call the authorities. He did say he wasn't lying but claimed he didn't know who he'd been sexually active with, which everyone found very hard to believe."

"Are you sure it's not just some other teenager in the neighborhood?" John dared to ask. He didn't think that was the case, but once again he reminded himself not to assume.

"His teachers said he had no friends and spent most of his time by himself. He couldn't name a single friend when he was asked about them."

"He loves his abuser very much," Sherlock stated, like it was self-evident. "The perpetrator is exploiting that, by reminding him he has no other friends and that the abuser is the only person who cares about him. That's not very far off the mark, as he's well aware his mother doesn't care about him and no one at school notices him. His arm was broken because he resisted the sexual contact for once. He's managed to convince himself that was something he did wrong and if he says anything he loses the abuser's friendship. Of course that last one isn't too off the mark."

"I suspected something like that." Lestrade stared down at the file.

"Will I be able to speak with him?" Sherlock grabbed the picture from John's hands and looked down at it. "I want to speak to as many of the victims as I can."

"Not now. I want you to wait until you've talked to Moira Aherne again. I'd also like to tape that conversation, and I'll talk to her father about that. If you're going to be working on this case I think we'll need proof that you're good with the children you're going to question." He took a long sip of his tea before speaking again. "Once the other Yarders hear all of that it'll be easier for me to convince them. According to her father, she gets out of the hospital in two days. There's a school holiday on Thursday, so if you want to go over then I'll talk to him."

"How were the other victims brought to your attention?" At this point John realized that that flat repressed anger he'd seen in Sherlock when he'd told him about Moira was back. Perhaps less repressed, if the shaking of his hands were any indication.

"The Yard's attention, you mean? They were all seen at St. Bart's, the clinic. Most of them came in with unrelated injuries or nonspecific complaints, but there was evidence of sexual abuse on the examination. If we're looking at the pattern, it goes back about ten years. Different doctors at the clinic have documented it, and they are all listed in the file." Lestrade set down his now empty tea cup. "Phillip Rodgers was the one that caused the review of the cases. None of the victims said who the abuser was. There was one where the authorities thought it was the father, and his little girl was taken into care, but they were never able to connect him and he got her back eventually."

"I see." Sherlock's voice was tight.

Lestrade stood up. "I should get going now; I have a lot to do today. That file is a copy, so you can keep it yourself without sneaking one out." Before walking out the door, he added "Thank you for the tea, John. Mr. Aherne's number is in the file, so call him and plan for a Thursday meeting."

John expected Sherlock to grab the file as soon as Lestrade walked out the door and start leafing through it, but instead he stayed in his chair and looked down at the photograph of Phillip Rodgers. It looked like he was lost in thought, or memories. When several minutes passed and he had made no attempt at looking at the file, John cleared his throat. "Sherlock? Is everything all right?" Normally he wouldn't have asked something like that, but his behavior had been so off for the last few days he was becoming concerned.

"Fine," Sherlock replied flatly. There was no anger, just blankness.

"Why was your bee taken away from you?" John asked him. He wasn't sure what had made him pose the question, and fully expected to be mocked or given some non-answer.

"I was telling horrible lies." The statement sounded rehearsed.

"So your toy was taken away forever?" To John, that seemed cruel, but without any knowledge of the circumstances it was difficult to draw a conclusion.

"I was fourteen. Too old for something so childish." That sounded so rehearsed to John that he suspected that it was something Sherlock had heard repeatedly.

"What happened when Mycroft found out about that?" There were seven years between the brothers, and John figured at that point Mycroft would have been at university, but he did seem to care for his brother and would keep up with how he was at home. And of course Mycroft had apparently given him the bee. He was met with silence, and after a minute it slowly dawned on him. "Is that how he upset your mother?" John well knew that Mycroft on the warpath was not someone to be ignored. Considering the fact both brothers didn't talk about their family, he assumed it had ended badly.

"Two months later she died of a stroke," Sherlock said in his usual way of not quite answering the question. "I should have known better." He took the file and got up to leave the room.

"Known better than what?" John asked his retreating form. He was met with silence and a slam of his bedroom door. He didn't see Sherlock again all day.


	7. Chapter 7

John was decidedly glad when he left for the clinic Monday morning. When he woke up and came downstairs Sherlock had left his room, but was sitting sideways in a chair again, Lestrade's file in his lap. He didn't respond to John's tentative "Morning," and in fact seemed not to notice that he was there. It was a relief to leave and descend into the hustle and bustle of the city and even more of a relief when he arrived at work and was greeted with a few remarks of "Hello," or "Good morning?" Even though his patients that morning had a tedious repetition of symptoms (London appeared to be in the midst of a flu epidemic) it was still enough to distract his mind.

He was planning on working straight through his dinner, as he didn't feel hungry. However, Sarah poked her head in before he was able to inform anyone of it and asked if he wanted to eat with her in the cafeteria. The cafeteria food had no appeal and he hadn't brought anything, but he accepted the invitation anyway, feeling a need to talk to someone. Sarah had taken the "this isn't working, let's be friends" conversation with her typical good humor, and had even said she would have said the same thing in a few days, so that had stripped one layer of complication from their relationship.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked him once they were sitting down. She pulled out a container of some kind of pasta and a banana and began to eat. John then related to her the events of the last few days, starting with Moira Aherne and ending with the case file and Sherlock's angry brooding. Once he finished, she frowned. "I do remember that boy. He's a big kid, about your height already, but he looks like an overgrown child and not a teenager. He was a sad one, too – I don't think he smiled once."

John nodded. "The combination of all those hurt kids and the fact it's now Sherlock's case is hard to deal with. Even he was angry about it, and he never gets angry at crime unless he can't figure out who did it and why."

"He's probably about as thrilled about child abuse as everyone else is. Or maybe he sees something in the victims that reminds him of himself? Like the Rodgers boy – he remembers being an unhappy kid?"

"Possible," he admitted. Not wanting to dwell on the subject anymore, he switched topics to general St. Bart's gossip, which kept them talking until they went back to work.

While the flu patients were a welcome distraction on Monday, by the end of Wednesday John was thoroughly tired of them. He wanted nothing more than to not think for the rest of the evening and prepare for tomorrow's visit with the Aherne family. Lestrade had gotten permission to have them interview Moira again and to tape the conversation, and had even provided a tape recorder from the Yard ("you'll have to give it right back, of course"). Since Sherlock had been so silent over the last few days, he figured this would be easy. John hadn't even seen any new experiments around the flat. When his nose wasn't buried in the file he was writing things down in a notebook John had never seen before. Of course, the bubble burst as soon as he got home and saw Sherlock bouncing like he usually did in the throes of a case. "John! Before the visit tomorrow I'd like to run some ideas by you." He sounded delighted.

"All right," he said, grateful that he seemed to have come out of his funk.

"You'll be recording the talk I have with Moira tomorrow. I strongly doubt that she'll want you physically present, so you'll have to stand outside the room. Also, I'd like to talk to her father again, and that will be taped too, but you can sit there the whole time."

"How generous of you," John couldn't help but add.

"I also want to get a good look at their flat. And since we'll be out anyway, we can stop at the Yard to drop off the tapes and I can see about talking to Phillip Rodgers." He paused for a moment. "That will probably take a few talks, because he doesn't trust most people. I would talk to his mother but I doubt she would know anything. Or particularly care, for that matter."

"I talked to Sarah a few days ago and she said he was a sad child." He didn't expect this comment to be acknowledged, but to his surprised Sherlock nodded sagely.

"I'm sure he is," he said quietly.

"And we leave later tomorrow. After we've both eaten dinner at the least. You will find it a lot easier to talk to a child who's got food in their stomach." John turned to leave the room and almost didn't hear the response he got.

"I know that." They didn't speak any more that night, but when John got up in the middle of the night to get himself a drink, he could see Sherlock sitting by the window, staring out into the city. John didn't ask what he was doing or what he was thinking, because he was starting to realize there was a great deal he didn't know about Sherlock. He was so angry and determined about this case. He seemed to know exactly what to say to Moira and what she felt. This was creating a disturbing picture, but he only had vague remarks to go with. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to find out about more of it.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock wasn't in the same chair when John came downstairs in the morning, but he was pacing back and forth across the kitchen. He was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing yesterday, and the fact they didn't look particularly rumpled was probably because he hadn't got any sleep. When John said "Morning" to him, he actually responded with a "Morning" of his own, so that was a good sign.

Unfortunately that was the last thing he said for the entire morning, and he was even silent when they took a cab to the Aherne's flat. Sherlock stared out the window, but he was clearly not focusing on anything. John was suddenly glad he'd had a large dinner; this was the type of day that required a lot of fuel. After they disembarked from the cab and knocked on the Aherne's door, John noticed that Sherlock's hands were clenched into fists. He'd never done that before and John wasn't sure what to make of it.

Mr. Aherne opened the door, and the sweet smell of baking biscuits drifted out to them. Two pairs of green eyes were trying to peer past their father and out the door, but Moira's was not one of them.

"Come in. I've been baking all day for a birthday party this weekend. Birthday boy is allergic to peanuts and his parents wanted to make sure none were in the kitchen."

"Can I have a biscuit, Dad?" Dierdre asked as they came into the front room. A pile of trainers and a football were sitting by the door as well as a dog leash. The whole place had the cozy familiarity that most homes with children have.

"Only when I've counted them out, you know that. I always bake more than people ask for, so there should be plenty left." He smiled as he led them into the adjacent kitchen. Racks of cooling biscuits littered the counter and a large stand mixer was running at full power.

"Anyway, we just ate dinner, Dierdre," said her brother. "You can't be hungry again already."

"I want a biscuit!" she protested.

"Enough," ordered Mr. Aherne. "Both of you find something to do that's not in this kitchen." They scampered into the living room and were soon sitting on the sofa, engrossed in the television's soft glow. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to Sherlock and John. "Moira's in her room with the dog. It's just down the hall; the door should be open." He gestured down the way. "She will probably want the door to stay open while you talk to her."

John knew he wasn't supposed to make his presence known, but he couldn't resist looking into Moira's room. She was sitting on the bed with a book, a veritable wall of stuffed animals on one side of the bed. The dog (tan, huge, and wrinkled) was lying down on a large round cushion. A Doctor Who poster and a Star Wars poster were on adjacent walls, and a large poster of some astronomical object hung over the bed. He noticed that the room had a window right by the bed, and with a twinge of unease realized it was on just the right level for someone to enter by it. He ducked out of the way as Sherlock walked into the room, pulled out the recorder, and pressed the button.

"Hello, Moira," Sherlock said kindly. "Is there a chair I can bring in here?"

"You can sit on my bed," she said in response, and John could hear the sound of them shuffling around.

"That's a lovely photograph on that poster. Which Messier object is it?"

"It's the Wild Duck Cluster. I got it for my birthday. You're smart because most people don't know what the M stands for." John was surprised he knew what it stood for, considering Sherlock claimed ignorance of the earth going round the sun, but Sherlock had shown some strange bits of knowledge in the past from areas he seemed otherwise ignorant of. Or the photograph mentioned what the M stood for; that was possible.

"Do you like astronomy?"

"I like it a lot. I want to be a scientist. Like Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawking or Marie Curie. I've got books that tell all about their lives." There was the clink of metal objects against each other. "Oh, Rory wants to say hello. Just let him sniff you. It's okay, Rory, he's a nice man." John couldn't believe what he heard next. It was a laugh – was Sherlock really laughing?

"He probably smells this." Papers rustled.

"Oh, a Cadbury bar! Is this all for me?" Moira sounded delighted. John was still stunned. Sherlock never bought food on his own, and he knew there weren't any Cadbury bars in their flat. Had he really done that just for this interview?

"It's all yours. Don't give it to Rory, though."

"I wouldn't because chocolate's bad for dogs. But do you want some?" More rustling papers.

"I wouldn't mind a piece. Thank you, you're very kind." John could now smell the faint scent of the chocolate bar. "You said you had an insect book the last time we talked. Can you show it to me?"

"It's right here in the book case." There were footsteps. "Here it is. Those are all my scientist books, right next to them."

"You do have a lot of books about science." More footsteps, presumably moving back to the bed. He heard pages turn.

"See, this is the page with the bee. It's got a picture they took with a microscope."

"It doesn't look much like the bees you see outside, does it?"

"No, because it's so close up. People might look funny if you took pictures of them with a microscope too." A pause. "You said you had a stuffed bee. Who gave it to you?"

"My brother."

"Do you still have it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It got taken away from me." Sherlock sounded sad, almost as though he still mourned its loss.

"And you never got it back?" She sounded sad herself, but John reminded himself that a child would of course mourn the loss of a toy, or even the idea of losing one.

"I believe my mother sold it. Or perhaps gave it away."

"That's unfair. Was your mum the one who took it away?"

"Yes, she was."

"Did you ask your dad for it back?"

"My father died when I was small."

"That's sad. I'm sorry." He heard a cry of surprise. "Don't you like hugs?"

"Not very much, no."

"I shouldn't have hugged you without asking first. Me dad does that when I'm sad, though, so I forgot."

"It's all right."

"What did you get your bee taken away for?" She sounded curious and somewhat horrified, like she couldn't imagine the crime that would involve such a severe punishment.

"I was telling horrible lies." He was using the same flat, rehearsed tone that he had used when he said it before. "And I was fourteen and too old for such a childish thing."

"Were you telling horrible lies?" John was surprised by the question; he hadn't even thought to ask something so basic.

"No." His voice was almost a whisper.

"So your mum just thought you were?"

"Yes."

"Did your brother find out about it?"

"Yes. He was very angry. Then a few months later my mother died."

"Because of what you told her?" There was a note of terror in her voice.

"No. It would have happened anyway." Sherlock sounded like he didn't quite believe that. Of course it was probably the truth, and he knew that factually, but he hadn't convinced his feelings otherwise.

"I don't want to lose me dad."

"I don't think you do. No one does."

"If he dies will someone be allowed to adopt me?"

"They might. The police and the courts would have to see that person could give you a good home." He sounded almost reassuring. "You seem to be very worried about that."

"Yeah." Her voice was the whisper that his had been before.

"Did someone say that they would adopt you if he died?" There was a very long period of silence. John assumed she nodded, because Sherlock then said, "They did?" More silence. "Are you afraid of this person?"

"Yeah." Her voice was so faint that it was almost inaudible.

"And they said that you'd get in trouble if you said anything about them."

"You know," she responded in a tone of wonder.

"How about I make a deal with you. You can tell me more about this person, but don't tell me their name or what they look like. That way, if they ask you if you've told anyone about them, you can still say no."

"All right."

"Do you know where this person lives?"

"No."

"Where did you meet them?"

"At the park. I took Rory for a walk and I met someone. We talked a bit. I said we'd moved. Said to me I must be lonely."

"I'm sure you were."

"I said I was." Another long period of silence. "That's when the question…" She trailed off.

"They asked you a question?" Silence, probably filled with another nod. "What did they ask you?"

"If I was a boy or a girl."

"And you said you were a girl?"

"Yeah." More silence.

"What did they say after that?"

"'Are you sure?'"

"Did you say you were sure?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Did they?"

"Yeah."

"It's okay, you don't have to look at me. What did they say next?"

"'Let me check,'" she whispered.

"What were you wearing?"

"A sweatsuit and a jacket."

"So they just pulled at the sweatpants and checked?"

"It was sort of a rub. Then it got all hot and burny. Said I really was a girl, but that was a while later."

"You don't remember how long it was?"

"No."

"Did they tell you they would be coming back? Or that you'd see them again?"

"Said to come back tomorrow. Said, 'I want us to be friends.' Said, 'I like dogs too.' If I came back there'd be a surprise."

Sherlock was the one who broke the long silence. "You're a very brave girl, Moira. Thank you for telling me all this."

"Will you come back to see me?"

"Of course I will. I'd like to talk to you again. Next time I would like to have my friend John here when we talk. Do you mind that?"

"No. Dr. Watson's a nice man. You can bring him."

"Okay. We're going to stop now, because this is hard for you. But next time I will ask you some more questions. Is that all right?"

"Okay. And you won't tell K – " The first letter apparently slipped out, but the rest of the name was cut off. She took a deep, panicked breath. John wondered whether "K" was the beginning of a first name or a last name.

"No, of course not. K won't know we've talked. Thank you, Moira." Sherlock emerged from the room. He looked paler than usual, although it was hard to tell. "Come along, John," he said as he walked down the hallway. They returned in the kitchen where Mr. Aherne was still waiting, his other two children now eating a biscuit each. To John's surprise, he thrust a plate of biscuits wrapped in plastic at Sherlock.

"Thank you so much for all you've done. Will I be seeing you again?"

"Moira wants me to come back, so yes, you will. We have to deliver the tape to the Yard first, but Lestrade says that if you want to listen to it you can go down there tomorrow." Sherlock sounded once more confident and professional. It was hard to imagine he was the same person who had been so gentle with a child minutes ago.

John wasn't even sure what to say as they got into a cab headed for the Yard. He had a hundred questions buzzing in his head, but he doubted Sherlock would answer any of them. It was a good thing Sherlock had gone back to staring distantly out the window, because then he couldn't see the text he sent to the one person who might have those answers.

"Mycroft – we need to talk. JH."


	9. Chapter 9

AN: browneyedrecluse has done fan art for this chapter: .

John had no time to check for a response until they returned the tape and recorder to the Yard and were back at home. Sherlock headed up to his room without a word, which gave him the opportunity to bring out his mobile, unsilence it, and check his messages. One brief response: "Take a walk around six. I will meet you." No initials, but that was Sherlock's trait, not Mycroft's. He wondered what sort of excuse he would use when he left. "Taking a walk" sounded like he was being deceitful (which technically he was).

It turned out that he didn't have to say anything at all, as Sherlock was still sequestered in his room and hadn't left since they had arrived back home. He set out with a vague feeling of unease. While John had a lot of questions, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers to many of them. However, he had little time to be lost in thought, as a car pulled up next to him and the window rolled down. "John," said Mycroft. "Lovely to see you. You signed your last message with 'JH'; have you eloped with my brother?"

He opened the door and got in the car. "No. It was a typo. I've had so many things to think about in the last few days that I wasn't paying attention. Where are we going?"

"We are staying right here in this car, which my driver will be driving in no particular pattern while we have a conversation. Now, while I'm sure there are hundreds of things you could want to speak to me about, I think this is one thing in particular. What is that?"

"Sherlock's bee. Why did it get taken away from him?" He had no idea why he said that, of all things, but it worked. Mycroft gave a heavy sigh.

"Ah. His bee. I would ask where you had learned about that, but that is not relevant to the question. That is a very long story, and I hope I can answer your questions." He glanced out the window, and then to his hands in his lap. "That bee is my greatest failure."

John almost wanted to tell him to stop talking. There was a note of anguish in his voice that he'd never heard coming from Mycroft before. Anyway, he doubted he would hear anything other than what he already suspected. He was as surprised as anyone else when he heard himself say, "Go on."

"As you may or may not know, my father passed away when I was nine and Sherlock two. He had been ill for some time beforehand, for what to me seemed like a lifetime. My mother seemed to never recover from his death. Neither of our parents was ever particularly doting or loving, but after the death of our father she became all the more more distant. As a result I had to spend much of my spare time looking after my brother. She was home every day, did not work, was easily able to live off the money her family had and my father had accumulated. We had no living family besides our father's mother, who lived in France and thus was not available to us most of the time; our mother was an only child of two only children, both of whom had died before I or my brother was born." He broke his gaze from John to the window again. "Of course when I turned eleven I was sent to the same public school my father attended. I was worried about leaving my brother alone at home – not from any physical dangers, but I was concerned he would be lonely. So I took what pocket money I had saved and bought him that stuffed bee from a store in town."

"Why a bee?" John couldn't help but ask.

"He had always been fascinated with them, and in town there was a store that contained almost every kind of stuffed toy imaginable. I told him every time he saw it he could think of me. At the time, that seemed to make him happy." He shifted his glance again, from the window to his lap. "When I came home from school on the summer holiday, my brother had… changed. Not in any way I could really define. He was quieter. Not as bold, not asking questions, not following me around chattering. I'll admit I didn't notice this myself, not in a conscious way, until I noticed he had a book about insects I had never seen before. I was sure our mother hadn't given it to him, and I asked him where he got it. He told me that he had found it. Obviously this wasn't true, but he got so uneasy when I asked I didn't press him further. But that was what made me notice he had changed."

"Did you tell your mother about this?"

He snorted. "Of course not. She would neither have noticed nor cared, and I knew that. And there was no one else to tell. I was still young enough that I didn't think of the possible explanations." Mycroft looked John briefly in the eye, then went back to staring out the window. "And I went back to school. For several years, until I left school for university, that was the pattern. I would come home on holidays and see my brother. Some of the time he would be gone for long periods of time; he said he was taking a walk. He would do well enough in school, but his teachers said he didn't really pay attention." John was suddenly reminded of Phillip Rodgers. He shivered. "He would show up with items that he claimed he had found. He talked to me, but whenever I tried to ask him about what was going on when I wasn't home, he would clam up."

He turned to look John directly in the eye, as if to make sure he wasn't missing this. "When I left for university, I considered taking Sherlock with me. By now I knew the possible explanations. However, I deliberately refused to make the connection. My reasoning for wanting him to come with me was because I knew he was unhappy at home. Even if everything else in his life was perfect, we both knew that our mother was not concerned with us. She refused my request, however, and since I was not due to inherit any of my father's estate for three years I could not support him without her help." He took a deep breath. "And then when I was twenty-one, I got a call from my brother. All he told me was that his bee had been taken away and he was being sent away to school. He hadn't yet attended boarding school, which was less of a problem than you might think because our town had an excellent day school he could attend. I came home right away. My mother was furious at him. All she told me was that he was 'telling horrible lies' about a neighbour. This neighbour had apparently denied whatever Sherlock had told our mother, and that was enough for her to deem him a liar. I asked what he had said. I asked who the neighbour was. She refused to answer any of my questions. And she had taken away his bee. She burned it." John actually gasped at that, for what reason he didn't know. "I lost my temper at this point and in the row that ensued she told me that the lies were of a…lewd nature. Of course at this point that only made me angrier. I left vowing to never return. I did not. Then our mother died a few months later, and Sherlock decided that this was my fault. If I hadn't upset her she would still be alive. He claimed that losing the bee was unimportant, as he was too old for such a thing."

"Did you ever find out who the neighbour was?" John forced himself to ask.

"No," he said simply. "There were several people who had lived in the immediate area for some time, and several also moved around the time of our mother's death. Sherlock insisted he had no idea what she was talking about. Our relationship has been so strained for so long I have never asked further. That is why that bee is my greatest failure."

"It wasn't your responsibility to protect him from whoever was abusing him. Even if you did figure out who it was, I doubt that any charges would have gone through if Sherlock just denied everything," John said, in an attempt to reassure him.

"Regardless of who was responsible, you can see the effect on him. He really had no friends prior to you. You know about his past drug use and you have seen his neglect of his own well-being. I assume he is trying to bury the past with this case of the serial perpetrator." The car stopped at that point. "We are back at Baker Street now. I hope this conversation has been helpful."

"Thank you for telling me all this," John replied, and hopped out of the car and up all seventeen steps to 221B. There were no lights on in the flat, but when he got inside and flipped the switch, he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting sideways in a chair, violin in his hands.

"I hope your conversation with my brother was enlightening," he said without preamble.

"He…" John tried to think of a delicate way to put it. "He told me about your bee."

"I see."

"You told Moira Aherne that you were telling the truth. Not horrible lies." Why he blurted that out, John did not know.

"Yes, I did."

John wanted desperately to question him further, to see if he wanted to get the story off his chest. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't respond to something like that. "If you ever want to talk about that, I'll be willing to listen." Figuring that he would want to be alone, John headed to his bedroom. He had only taken a few steps before he heard music. The haunting lament of a violin, sad enough to break your heart.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was apparently up all night playing music, or at least for most of it, because every time John woke up, even for a minute or two, he could hear the violin downstairs. He only noticed it had stopped when he was woken up by Sherlock barging into his room and telling him to get dressed quickly because Lestrade wanted to see them at the Yard.

It was a good thing that Sherlock wasn't particularly talkative this time, because John was lost in thought himself. He kept hearing things Sherlock had said in the past.

_"I consider myself married to my work."_

_"I'm not afraid of sex."_

_"I wasn't the one who upset her!"_

_"People always assume."_

When he'd heard the first, he hadn't thought anything of it, other than Sherlock was apparently uninterested in sex or romance. As rejections went, it beat "You're not my type" or "I'm straight," (usually said in an offended tone). The second, well, it wasn't too odd to assume that anyone who was uninterested might get the "you're just afraid" response, but the defensive tone had made him wonder. And the third…he certainly hated his brother, but never explained why.

The last stuck with him the most. It was almost like Sherlock had been trying to tell him something. After Mycroft's story it made a lot more sense. Even then, it sounded like there was another story to it. That he wouldn't be rude to  
Moira? Possibly. He seemed so calm when he talked to her. John wasn't sure he could have remained neutral when she told the "Are you a boy or a girl?" story. Even now it made him shudder. Had Sherlock been on the receiving end of such a conversation? He realized that if his abuser had really started doing so when Mycroft left for school, and only stopped after the bee incident, that meant he'd been subjected to ten years of abuse. Was there really enough loyalty there that Sherlock would never name this person, whoever he may be? Was that why Phillip Rodgers struck him so much? Could he see himself as Phillip and the abuser as the mysterious K?

And of course if he hadn't been so firmly brushed off the one time he had made an advance, he would have wondered if Sherlock was attracted to him. In an unguarded moment, Molly had once said that he looked at John differently than he looked at other people. "Almost like he wants something he can't have," she had elaborated. This made no sense if Sherlock was merely uninterested in a sexual or romantic relationship, but if he really wanted something like that and the demons of his past were stopping him, it made a sickening sense. Sherlock had also commented Phillip loved his abuser. Did Sherlock still love whoever had done that to him? Like Phillip, he had no father growing up and his mother was distant at best.

Even if all this was the case, he reminded himself, there was no way to approach it. Whether it was because his one attempt to describe what had been happening to him was so disastrous or because he was reticent by nature, Sherlock wasn't going to talk about it. He never talked about himself to begin with – hell, John hadn't known until recently that both his parents were dead or that he had never really known his father. There was no casual way to bring anything like that up in conversation, anyway. John also knew if he just bit the bullet and asked something like "So, that person you were 'telling horrible lies' about, can you tell me about him?" he would be met with stony silence.

The arrival of the cab at the Yard broke him out of his reverie, and the two of them walked inside like it was just another day and this was just another crime they happened to be investigating. That was broken quickly by the appearance of Sally Donovan, who was looking at the two of them in surprise. John figured that he should just walk by and ensure that both of them wouldn't begin the insults, but when she spoke that broke like a soap bubble. "I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't heard it myself," she said in a tone of wonder.

"The tape?" Sherlock casually asked, like it was a question about a neutral topic.

"I spent an hour trying to get a word out of that Aherne girl. An hour. I didn't even ask her any questions about why she was there, and still all I got was a few mumbled 'Yes' or 'No" answers. Wouldn't even look me in the eye. All you did was chat a bit and she spills her guts to you. If John couldn't even get her to say something, I would have assumed she'd have sent him" (here she gestured to Sherlock) "out of the room and cried for her dad. You're so hard-nosed most of the time. What happened?"

"We're here to talk to Lestrade. Now please let us pass." Sherlock walked past her, John following. John was most astonished by the fact that he hadn't started an argument with her, or even been dismissive of her failed attempt to get Moira to talk. But on this case, everyone seemed astonished with Sherlock. And of course only John and Mycroft knew why. It was a club he wished he didn't belong to.

When they reached Lestrade's office John was surprised to see he was not alone. A familiar boy, one with shaggy black hair that fell into his eyes, was sitting in a chair opposite him. One hazel eye was half visible under the fringe. "John, Sherlock, as you may know this is Phillip Rodgers. He decided he'd rather not go to school today and I told him if he talked to Sherlock he wouldn't be taken in for playing truant." Lestrade sounded very matter-of-fact. "Mr. Aherne will be here soon to listen to the tape the two of you made, and I think it would help if you were there too, John."

John didn't question the need to have extra support for Mr. Aherne or that Sherlock would apparently be talking to Phillip alone. Phillip was staring at the floor. He had made no indication that he was paying attention to the previous conversation and looked rather like he would not be there at all. He couldn't think of something consoling to say to the boy and was relieved when Sherlock spoke up. "You've had your cast off for what is it, two weeks now? I hope you've gotten some strength back in it now."

Phillip's eyes were now both visible as he lifted his head to face Sherlock. He looked rather surprised.

"At least it wasn't your dominant hand. It's hard enough being left-handed, and being forced to use the other arm wouldn't be much fun." Sherlock had adopted a similar tone to the one he used when sharing his deductions, but instead of the faint air of superiority he usually used, he was matter-of-fact like Lestrade had been.

"How did you know I was left-handed?" His voice was almost a whisper, a low voice that wouldn't attract attention.

"Well, your right arm was recently broken. You have no cast because it was removed, but the pale skin and the obvious difference in size between the two indicates until recently it was in a cast. The muscles have weakened, making it smaller than your left arm. If you were right-handed the difference would not be as pronounced, as you would be trying to build up the strength in the arm as soon as possible." He smiled at Phillip, and it looked sincere, not faked.

At that moment Mr. Aherne walked into the office. "You said I could come here to hear that tape?" he said without preamble. "I've cleared out the day, so I can be here for a while."

"Of course, Mr. Aherne. We'll just go into one of the interview rooms," Lestrade said soothingly. "Sherlock, you know you'll have to tape your conversation with Phillip, but I don't anticipate any problems. John, you're coming with us?" John nodded and the three of them left the room, Sherlock closing the door behind them.

The interview room was small and windowless. It had a small table, four chairs, and a tape recorder. Mr. Aherne settled into one of the chairs. He looked uneasy. Lestrade sat down opposite him and gestured for John to sit next to him. "If you want us to stop the tape at any point, just tell us," Lestrade said in a soothing manner.

"Just play it. I need to hear what it says." Mr. Aherne's voice was resigned but steady. Lestrade wasted no time after this, immediately pressing the "play" button.

John had already heard the whole interview, so none of it was a surprise to him. Mr. Aherne, of course, had not heard any of it. He laughed when the dog came up to Sherlock and Moira and smiled fondly when she offered Sherlock a piece of the chocolate bar he brought her. His eyes widened with the conversation about the fate of the bee, however, and when Moira expressed her fear of her father dying his eyes filled with tears. John half expected him to demand they stop the tape at that point, but he didn't say a word. He briefly smiled when Sherlock told her that she didn't have to say the person's name or what they looked like, but that melted off his face with Moira's account of her trip to the park. The "'Are you a boy or a girl?'" line caused him to audibly sob, and tears streamed down his face for the rest of the tape. When it clicked off he had buried his face in his hands, muffling the sounds of despair he was making.

"We're going to catch this K, Mr. Aherne, just so you know that," Lestrade said.

He lifted up his head after hearing Lestrade's voice. "Why?" was all he could manage. "I've tried so much to be a good father, especially after Nora died. I moved to London because I could still be with my children most of the time when I worked. I just want them to be safe and happy. What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," John hastened to reassure him. "People like K know how to manipulate a child. He'll be caught, just like Lestrade said. You are a man doing the best you can in a bad situation."

"That Sherlock Holmes was so good with her." Mr. Aherne's voice was still wet with tears, but he looked like he was making an effort to cheer himself some. "He's a good man. Any time he wants to talk to Moira again I'll let him. No wonder the Yard calls on him so often." John and Lestrade shared a glance, but were both able to refrain from bursting into laughter.

"Is there anything else you want to ask me?" Lestrade was quick to change the subject.

"When do you want to talk to Moira again?" He was looking directly at John. "Will it be at home or should I bring her here?"

"You can ask her if you want, but if she's not comfortable coming here I'm sure Sherlock will talk to her at home again," John said quickly.

Once the three of them left the interview room, Mr. Aherne shook both their hands. "I need to make sure I'm home before the children get out of school. Thank you, for letting me hear this, and for letting such a good man talk to my daughter." He turned and left after this, which gave John and Lestrade time to chuckle to themselves. They walked back to Lestrade's office, where the door was still shut.

"Should I knock?" John asked.

"No. Once the two of them come out we can go back in and listen to the interview." He leaned against the wall, apparently content to wait.

John didn't know how much time passed before the door opened and Sherlock and Phillip came back out. Sherlock had a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You'll talk to me again?" Phillip said.

"Any time you want me to. That's a promise. Just call me at the number I gave you." Lestrade looked shocked at this and wore an expression similar to a flailing trout.

"Can I bring my pictures with me?" He had started down the hall, but turned to look back.

"Of course. I want to see what you draw. Bring your flute, too." Sherlock smiled warmly at him as he walked down the hall, alone. He looked like he was planning on leaving himself, but Lestrade cleared his throat.  
"No, Sherlock Holmes, you are not leaving. We're all going back in that office and listening to that tape. I promised Mr. Aherne we're going to catch this man, and the sooner that happens the better." Sherlock's smile became a scowl, but walked back into the office without a complaint. John followed the two of them and shut the door behind him.

Lestrade pressed the "rewind" button and when the tape clicked to indicate it had finished, he said, "From the way Phillip was talking to you, he seemed to get along with you well. I never would have thought it. Moira Aherne too. Even Donovan couldn't get her to talk." He looked like he might say more, but instead pressed "play". The tape faintly hissed as it began.


	11. Chapter 11

"Which of the woodwinds do you play?" Sherlock sounded the same way he had when he had spoken to Moira Aherne – warm and pleasant.

"The flute. How did you –"

"Any musician who plays a brass or woodwind instrument will have a particular lip configuration and discoloration of the teeth. That pattern is narrowed in the woodwinds, due to the fact there is less space."

"Do you always know so much about people? Just from looking at them?" Phillip didn't sound angry or irritated; he seemed intrigued if anything else.

"Some of the time, yes. It's just a matter of knowing how to look."

"Are you an artist, then?"

"No, I'm a detective. Never could match what I see on paper. I suppose you consider yourself an artist?"

"Not really, but I like to draw."

"In the margins of your schoolwork?"

Phillip laughed. "Amongst other places. I mostly do my drawing at home. Sometimes I go to the park to do it, though."

"Since you said you draw, I assume you're using pencils or something similar to that."

"Colored pencils. Ordinary ones occasionally. I like those best to draw because you can use your finger to make the shading look better." There was a moment of silence. "You have calluses on this hand. Do you play the violin?"

Sherlock could be heard to chuckle warmly. "Tell me what made you think I do."

"Well, you have calluses on your fingertips on this hand. Like from pressing down with a stringed instrument. It can't be the guitar because your nails are short on both hands, and guitar players keep their pick hand nails long. That means it has to be one of the orchestra strings since they're played with a bow. After that I just guessed, because the violin is what more people play than the viola or cello."

"Very smart of you. You'd make a good detective."

"Thank you."

"When did you start to play the flute?"

"Year three in school. If you took an instrument you could get out of class every day. I picked the flute because it didn't look like it would break easily."

John glanced over at Lestrade to see he still had a surprised look on his face. He understood – even after all this time it still seemed surreal to have Sherlock be so genuinely nice.

"I had a violin tutor from when I was young. Younger than you were when you started to play."

"I didn't think I'd like it as much as I did. But I like how it sounds. Nice and sweet." Another pause, this one longer than before. "You know, we've been talking for a while and you haven't asked me any questions about how I broke my arm yet."

"That is correct. I haven't." Sherlock's voice was level, calm. "Do you want me to ask you about it?"

"I don't know."

"You must be feeling very confused right now."

"I don't want to get in trouble." Phillip sounded weak.

"May I ask you some questions? If you don't want to answer, just tell me."

"All right." His voice was so soft it was almost impossible to hear.

"Did your arm get broken by someone else?"

"Yes. It was an accident, though."

"What do you mean by an accident?"

"I was arguing with someone. My arm got twisted; I think it was going to be held to my back, but it snapped."

"What were you arguing about?"

"I don't want to tell you that." Shame was evident in his voice.

"What happened after your arm was broken?"

"I heard something snap, so I thought I should go to the clinic at Bart's."

"Did the person who broke your arm agree with that?"

"Yeah. Bart's was the nearest and – " He abruptly cut off his sentence. There was another long pause. "You're a detective, right?"

"Yes, I told you that. Is there something about that you want to ask me?"

"If I get arrested, would you be able to help me?"

"Possibly," Sherlock gently reassured him. "Do you think you will be arrested for something?"

"Maybe."

"Do you think you've committed some sort of crime?"

"I don't know."

"Do you mean you don't know if what you did was a crime, that you don't remember if you did commit a crime, or that you're not sure if someone else will say you committed a crime?"

There was a very long silence. "The first, and the third."

"Did someone tell you that you had committed a crime?"

"Yeah." His voice was low, almost inaudible again.

"Was this the same person who broke your arm?" There was another long period of silence. "Should I take that as a yes?"

"It's not what you think," Phillip responded, slightly defensively.

Up until this point everyone had sat in silence to listen to the tape. Lestrade broke the silence by blurting out, "What does the poor boy think he did that he'll be arrested for?" Sherlock glared at him sharply in response, and he said no more.

"If that person broke your arm, even if it was an accident, then they've committed a crime."

"I don't want to get in trouble," he repeated.

"I know this is very hard for you. But I need to ask you some more questions. When you said on the intake form you were sexually active, was that the case?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

"With only one person, or more than one?"

"Only one."

"Is this person older than you, your age, or younger than you?"

"Older."

"An adult? Someone over eighteen?"

"Yeah, but I don't know how old."

"You do know that this person is guilty of another crime besides breaking your arm." He sounded gentle and warm.

"I… don't know."

"I know that you must have a lot of feelings for that person. You might even love them. That doesn't make it any less of a crime." Phillip didn't respond, but he gave a muffled half-sob. "I understand how you feel."

"You do?" he said disbelievingly.

"Yes, I do. When I was your age I knew a person like that, right in my neighbourhood. I didn't always like whatever they did, but I still loved them a great deal." Lestrade didn't say anything to this, but his eyes widened. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, so John felt safe enough giving a quick nod and making a gesture of silence.

"Were you having sex with them too?" John was somewhat impressed that Phillip was willing to ask something like that so bluntly.

"Yes, I was. I had been doing so for a while, in fact."

"How old were you when you met this person?"

"I was four years old."

"Me too."

"Where did you meet?"

"At work. I mean, where they worked."

"This person doesn't work there anymore?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Do you know where this person lives?"

"No. There's a flat I've been to but I don't think anyone lives there. Not a lot of furniture and it's too clean."

"That's smart of you to figure that out." Sherlock sounded proud.

"Thank you." Phillip sounded shy.

"Do you know where this flat is?"

"No. I have to shut my eyes when I get in the car. We drive around a lot."

"Phillip, you've done a lot of good work today. I would like to talk to you again if that is all right."

"That would be nice." He sounded like he had perked up a bit.

"Just a few more questions. Does this person have a first or last name that begins with a K?"

"Yeah. It's their first name."

"Do you know any more of their name?"

"One bit. Middle name."

"What is their middle name?"

"Gene."

"J-E-A-N or G-E-N-E?"

"G-E-N-E."

"All right. The investigator who's office we are currently using will want to get back to work, so you can go now."

"One more thing." Phillip's voice was quick. "Do you still know that person?"

"The one I mentioned to you?"

"Yeah."

"Not any more. They moved and I no longer live in the same area."

John assumed at this point Sherlock had shut off the tape, as he heard nothing but static. Lestrade still looked rattled by what he had heard on the tape. "You two can head back home. Sherlock, you said something about giving Phillip your number?"  
"I felt it would be useful. He would be able to fit any interviews in on his own time. He wants to be treated like an adult." Sherlock was back to sounding businesslike and detached.

"Good." He gestured for them to leave his office. John was perfectly aware of both the fact Sherlock had told Phillip about his past experience and that he undoubtedly knew he had just told Lestrade as well. He figured that Sherlock wouldn't want to talk and would go home and brood, so he said nothing as they went back to Baker St.

Any thought of Sherlock silently brooding was ruined when they walked through the door. He took his coat off and sent it flying across the room rather than hanging it up. "That monster!" he practically snarled.

"K?" John said stupidly.

"Yes, that evil, scumbag K! Do you know why Phillip was asking about being arrested? Do you know what he thinks he's done?" John shook his head. Sherlock punched the chair in front of him before responding. "Assault! Sexual assault! K's convinced him that he was the one to initiate the sexual contact, that he is responsible for it, and that K only doesn't report him out of their kind heart." His voice dripped venom.

At that point, John did something that in retrospect was a very bad idea, but he was acting on instinct. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. It was like a switch had been turned. Sherlock froze in mid-rant. His entire body had a mannequin-like stiffness.

John yanked away his hand. "Sorry."

"It was a reasonable gesture," said Sherlock without turning around and looking at him.

"Still, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You may at this point understand why I am married to my work." His voice sounded stiff, like even his vocal chords had gone rigid.

"Some," John said awkwardly. After that, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock heading back to his room and slamming the door behind him. He sat down on the chair that had been punched earlier, lost in thought. Was Sherlock trying to tell him that he didn't get involved in romantic relationships because he couldn't tolerate physical intimacy? To a certain degree, he could express affection; he had hugged Mrs. Hudson when they first met. Of course, that could be because he knew that would always be nonsexual touch. The fit he'd thrown about Phillip Rodgers was even more unusual. John suspected that while he was indeed describing Phillip's mindset about his "crime," he was also talking about his own experience. The thought of convincing a four-year-old child that it was their fault someone was sexually abusing them was so disturbing John found himself wishing he could have a few minutes alone with this K. Even that thought was too horrible to hold for more than a minute or two, so he turned on the telly and watched a football game without knowing what either team was, anything that happened during it, or really anything other than the fact it served as effective mental static. He watched without seeing for hours, ate a quick supper, and spent most of the night staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, unable to sink into any form of useful rest.


	12. Chapter 12

By six in the morning, John figured there was no point in staying in bed anymore, so he got up and took a slightly-too-hot shower to force himself into a form of wakefulness. Even with that he still felt blurred, out of focus. A few cups of strong coffee would at least lessen that, so he made his way down to the kitchen. He mentally thanked the person who had invented the coffee maker, since pressing a few buttons seemed to be all he felt up to doing.

When he came downstairs he was expecting to be alone, and was shocked into slightly more wakefulness by the sight of Sherlock curled up in a chair. He had thrown his dressing gown over whatever it was he was wearing and was talking to someone on his mobile. "Were they covered with blinds or just shades?" The person on the phone must have responded, because he nodded. "Now, you said it was a ground floor flat? All right. Do you think you were still in London?" Sherlock must have just noticed him, because he made a "go away" gesture with one hand. John retreated to the kitchen and started the coffee maker. Fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee later the world had come back into focus and he chanced looking into the sitting room. Sherlock was still curled up in the chair, but he was no longer on the phone.

"I assume you wanted privacy?" John said in an attempt to ask what he had been doing on the phone.

"That was Phillip Rodgers. He's been ringing me off and on all night with details. And more questions about what I would do if he was arrested." The fury he had been filled with the night before was gone, replaced by a flatness.

"All night long? Really?" John wondered for a minute if his mother would have noticed him using the phone all night long, and then reminded himself most children his age had their own mobiles.

Sherlock snorted. "Of course. He has no friends other than K, and he's desperately afraid of losing that friendship. He's also afraid that he will be arrested, because of nine years of conditioning that K has used to convince him he is the one responsible for any sexual activity. He has found from our one conversation that I am willing to listen to him, and he wants to tell someone about what is going on. Even though he thinks it is his fault he wants to talk about it simply because he never has before and I have mentioned –" He cut himself off mid-sentence. "Suffice to say I understand many of the feelings he currently has."

"Let me guess – he was telling you that since the flat he's been to with K has blinds and the shades drawn so he can't tell you where it is?" While he was sure there was more to their conversation than that, it seemed like a neutral enough talking point.

"Correct. He did say that he thinks they are still in London because he can hear a lot of cars go by." There was still a definite feeling of restraint to Sherlock. His words were carefully measured; his mood determinedly flat. This confirmed to John that Sherlock did in fact strongly identify with Phillip. He had been kind and understanding with Moira Aherne as well, but he hadn't exploded after any of their talks. For his part, John still got chills when he thought of Moira's childish voice repeating K's, "Are you a boy or a girl?" Phillip hadn't shared anything nearly that disturbing.

"It's okay to be angry at this K, you know." John found himself speaking before he could think about it. "If he's really convinced Phillip this is all his fault, he's a despicable human being."

Sherlock looked up at him at that point, his flat expression dissolving into a scowl. "I know that K is an abominable excuse for a person. You don't have to tell me that. I've spent most of the night understanding that. A thirteen-year-old boy has been constantly ringing me to give me somewhat more detail about what he and K have been doing for the past nine years." His voice was still flat.

"Is that information going to stay between the two of you?" John wasn't trying to be intrusive; he thought that those details weren't really important to the case. Besides, it was good for Phillip to tell all of that to someone.

"Of course," Sherlock responded in a slightly offended tone. "None of it is relevant to the identity of this K in any event."

"Does he know a last name for K?"

"No. At least he says he doesn't know." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I suspect he knows a lot more about this K than he is telling me."

John realized this conversation wasn't going to end any time soon, so he made himself comfortable in one of the chairs. "Do you think you'll be able to talk to anyone else that the Yard suspects is one of K's victims?" He was starting to feel a twinge of unease whenever anyone referred to K. That at least he could understand.

"I would like to speak to the father of the girl taken into care." His eyes briefly scanned the room before focusing again on his chest.

"The one that they thought was abusing her?" A thought occurred to him. "If she was treated at Bart's like the others, I could talk to whoever saw her and whoever decided the father had done it."

"That is an excellent idea, provided you can get permission to do so." He shifted in the chair so he was facing the window and not looking in John's direction anymore. "I am curious about the family dynamic in that case."

"Since both Moira and Phillip come from single parent households?"

"In part. K appears to choose victims that come from households where there is a distant or absent parent. In Phillip's case both of those factors are in play. However, K has already made a mistake in that regard." Sherlock now sounded slightly smug, but that was better than flat.

"Because Moira's got a father she's close to and is concerned for his daughter's welfare?" John guessed.

His scowl faded to a flat line. "Correct John, you're finally starting to pay attention to what's going on around you. K assumed that since Moira was lonely and had no mother, that she had a home life closer to Phillip Rodgers' life instead of the one she had. K preferentially selects children from single parent homes where the parent is frequently absent or working, or children with distant parents, or ones that are already abusive. Moira's home is none of those."

"So that's K's mistake here?"

"Exactly. Our best lead is of course the flat Phillip and possibly Moira have been to. There's little to go on there, of course."

"I'm sure you'll be able to get something from someone you talk to."

"I think the father I want to speak with will be helpful in that regard." He turned his head so he was staring out the window. "If a child came into clinic in the condition that Phillip did, what would you do?"

While John expected all sorts of unusual tangents in conversations he had with Sherlock, this threw him for a loop. "I would call social services, for one. Even if his arm really was broken accidentally, someone clearly intended to harm him."

"What would you say to him when he revealed he was sexually active?"

He swallowed. "With most teenagers his age, I would give him a quick reminder of the importance of birth control methods. However, with the fact his arm was broken I would wonder if the two events were related somehow."

"That a parent who was unhappy with his sexual activity broke his arm?"

"Possibly. Or that the sex – at least whatever happened recently – was at some point not consensual." He wasn't sure where this might be going, and if it lead into something more personal (what he had mentally dubbed the incident with the bee) it was important to weigh his words carefully. Thankfully, his mobile rang at that moment and he retreated to the kitchen.

"Hello John," Sarah said to him, sounding as friendly as always. "It's very slow today, so you don't need to come in."

"That's good, because I got no sleep last night."

"One of Sherlock's cases keeping you up?"

"Something like that," he replied.

"Well, there's so little going on here that I'm looking up past employment records on two doctors who used to work here. Both of them were before your time, and they both need some records for a new job. Dr. Arthur was as horrible as he ever was – remind me to tell you some of the horror stories I have about him – but Dr. Martin and I had a nice chat. She was always well-liked here."

"Good," he managed to say.

"Get some rest. No telling when you'll be dragged out again."

"I will," he said before disconnecting. He knew he couldn't go back to sleep now, so he spent the next few hours engaging in the sort of mindless web surfing one could do half-dead. After that, he figured there was enough of a delay and napped for an hour. That little bit of sleep was enough to give him some energy, and he spent the rest of the day doing a series of minor things around the flat that he hadn't had time for in a while. Sherlock was constantly coming in and out of the flat, gone from anywhere from a few minutes to an hour, and he wasn't bothering to explain what he was doing. John could see every time he came back in that his eyes were like angry storms, so he didn't ask.

While he hadn't gone to bed at nine in the evening since he had been in single digits, today he decided that was late enough. Unlike the previous night, he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and probably would have slept straight through to morning if his sleep had not been interrupted at midnight. Surprisingly, he woke up when the door opened, giving him a few seconds to collect himself before his room was suddenly flooded with light. He blinked and looked around the room. Sherlock was fully dressed and standing in the doorway.

"Come on. Lestrade just rang me. Someone's tried to break into the Aherne's flat."


	13. Chapter 13

John could dress in a few minutes, one of the remnants of being in the army, and they were both out the door and into a cab in a remarkably quick period of time. They didn't speak to each other, and the silence seemed to fit with the darkened city.

In sharp contrast, the Aherne's flat was lit up like a birthday cake, creating a beacon of light that drew you in. Lestrade was waiting outside for the two of them. "Come on in," he said. "No one saw the intruder, but in the girl's room the window screen has been cut." He escorted them inside without further details.

John didn't recognize the two Yarders in the kitchen, and Sherlock ignored them as he went down the hall to Moira's room. He gave a cursory nod to at least acknowledge their presence before following Sherlock down the hall. Mr. Aherne, Moira, and the dog were all in the room; the dog was lying underneath the open window and the other two were sitting on the bed, Moira leaning against her father. She was in a long nightgown and clutching the bear she had held in the hospital, but her father was still wearing ordinary clothing. Her expression was somber, but she smiled as Sherlock came into the room.

"It's good to see you again Moira, even if it's so late." Sherlock said in response before heading over to the window. The cut screen waved in the cold night air, a strangely menacing sight. "This was cut from the inside," he said after examining the window for a minute. "It was cut some time ago." Mr. Aherne's eyes widened and Moira turned her gaze to her feet. Sherlock turned from the window and crouched so he was at eye level with the people on the bed. "Did K come to visit you tonight?" He spoke softly rather than in his matter of fact deduction tone.

"Yeah," she said in a whisper.

"How many times has K done this before?"

"I'm not sure. A while."

"All right." He paused. "Do you want your father to stay here when we talk or do you want him to leave?"

"He can stay," she replied as she clutched the bear tighter to her.

Sherlock reached into his coat pockets and pulled out a tape recorder. It didn't look like the ones the Yard used so John assumed that he'd bought it earlier that day. "I'm going to record our conversation so you don't have to tell everything to the police again. Is that all right with you?"

"Is John going to be here too?" she said. She fixed her eyes on him as if she'd just noticed he was in the room.

"If you want me here," John spoke up in reply.

"It's okay if you stay. And you can put the recorder on," she said firmly in reply.

Sherlock sat the tape recorder on the carpet in front of him and pressed the button to record. (John wondered if he'd somehow known they would be called out by the Yard tonight.) When he finished with that he nodded and looked at Mr. Aherne. "What did you see? What made you phone the police?"

"I was getting ready to go to bed. I usually read something before I fall asleep, but before I got undressed I remembered that I had left the book I was reading in the kitchen. I walked down the hall and I noticed Rory – our dog – was following me. He sleeps in Moira's room, so I wondered what he was doing out here. I made my way to the kitchen and just as I grabbed the book Rory started barking and scraping at Moira's bedroom door. I ran back down the hall, opened the door, and switched on the light. The window was open and Moira was huddled on one part of the bed. I asked her if anyone had been in here, and she nodded. I stuck my head out the window but couldn't see if anyone was around there, since the streetlights in this area keep going out. I dialed 999 and I've been in here ever since." Only the slight waver in his voice indicated his distress.

Sherlock gave a half-nod and looked back at Moira. "How long was K in here?"

"Not very long. A few minutes," she whispered.

"Did you know K would be coming to see you tonight?"

"Maybe."

"Does K come by on certain days of the week?" He placed his hand next to her on the bed.

"Sometimes. Not every day though." Moira placed her hand over Sherlock's.

"Do you mean that K shows up only on a few days but doesn't visit on every one of those days?" He didn't seem bothered by her hand on his.

"Yeah."

"Is there a reason why you didn't tell anyone about this?" Sherlock already sounded gentle, but his voice had softened even more.

"The sugar bowl."

John assumed Sherlock would ask what she meant by this apparent non sequitur but he only continued to look at her. After a minute or two of silence, he turned to Mr. Aherne. "Do you use sugar on a daily basis?"

"I put sugar in my coffee every morning, a few teaspoons." He looked as bewildered as John felt.

"Do you use a specific container for that sugar or do you just scoop it out of where you normally keep it?"

"There's a small container I use for that sugar, so I can have a place to put it if I travel. I keep it on one of the top shelves in the kitchen." Realization appeared on his face. "Are you saying that this K told Moira if she told me my sugar would be poisoned?"  
Moira turned to look at her father, words tumbling from her mouth. "I'm sorry Dad, but I had to be quiet or something would get put there."

Mr. Aherne responded by pulling his daughter into a hug. "Oh, Moira, don't be sorry. I just wish I could have stopped this K from hurting you."

"Rory'd get a meatball," she said into his chest.

"K would give it to him?" Sherlock broke in.

"K brings it. I give it to him. He goes to sleep and then K comes in through the window. Rory sleeps in my room and if I didn't give him the meatball his throat would get slit." John could see Mr. Aherne look visibly shocked, but to his credit he didn't say anything.

"Did you know K would come tonight? Was that why you didn't have Rory in your room?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yeah. I thought maybe that meatball would be poison too. And even if me dad got sick from it I'd still have my dog. K said if he died I'd get adopted." Moira turned her head so her face was no longer against her father's chest, but she made no move to escape his grasp.

"By K?" Sherlock said. She nodded in response.

"I'm not going anywhere and I'm certainly not dying. And K can't just adopt you. K couldn't even take you into their home unless they had a foster license." Mr. Aherne was firm. A brief look of surprise appeared on Sherlock's face, but in a second it was gone. John suddenly had a horrible feeling that K might in fact have one of those.

"I was scared. Mum was already gone," his daughter whispered into his chest.

He ran a hand through his daughter's hair. "I know you must have been. I wish I had known something sooner. But that monster K is never going to touch you again. I promise." Mr. Aherne looked at the two men and in apparent response to the doubt that must have shown on both of their faces, added: "I'll sleep in this room with a knife in my hands. I'll bring Moira's bed in my room. I'll move all of us to a hotel. I'm not letting my daughter get hurt again. This stops now." He practically spat out the words in his fury.

Sherlock nodded briefly at the man. "We're on your side, you know. All of us are just as keen to find this K as you are. And believe me when I say the last thing I want to see is your daughter getting hurt again." He turned back to Moira. "Is there anything else you might be able to tell us?"

"K was my friend," she said softly. "I didn't have any others."

"I know K must have been, sweetheart," Mr. Aherne broke in. "I wish you had told me you were so lonely, though. You shouldn't have to get hurt to keep a friend."

In the time it took him to say that, Sherlock had flipped off the tape recorder and was now heading to the door. He gestured for John to follow him. As soon as the two of them walked out the door they were confronted by a boy in pajamas. John recognized him as Kieran, Moira's twin brother.

"Are you going to find the person who hurt my sister?" he asked without preamble.

Even though John knew about Sherlock's personal connection to the crime, he was still surprised by the undercurrent of rage in his voice as he said "Yes. We're going to find them and make them pay."


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade met them in the kitchen. "There's really not a lot we can do here. No one even saw a person here besides the girl. I'm going back to the Yard and I want both of you to come with me. There are some more files I've turned up that may be related to the case." The other officers had apparently already left, as there was no sign of them.

No one spoke on the way back to the Yard. Even when they had arrived, no one said anything. The building was cloaked in an eerie silence. John wondered if the uneasy feeling was in contrast to hospitals, where there was never any silence and the lights were always on.

Lestrade must have felt the same way, because he started talking as they walked back to his office. "The one file I'm going to show you is a little different than the others. The child involved was only victimized once, as far as we know. He wouldn't say anything about who had done it, although he did try to describe the flat he'd been taken to. The whole family are fairly recent immigrants – from Bangladesh, I believe – so lack of fluency in English might be an issue as well."

"Are you sure it was the same person then?" John asked.

"When I was listening to the interview with Phillip, I noticed that he said the flat didn't look used, and I remembered that case. Since it didn't fit the pattern, and he didn't live in the same neighbourhood, he wasn't originally thought to be part of all this. But he did say the flat was very clean and the shades were drawn." He opened the door to his office as he spoke, and at that moment a mobile let out a sharp series of rings. Sherlock's hand disappeared into the pocket of his coat and he pulled out his phone.

"Phillip," he said as he put it to his ear. "No, you didn't wake me up. I told you before I don't sleep much." He started walking down the hall, away from the office.

"The Rodgers boy called him?" Lestrade asked in disbelief. John nodded. "Has he done this before?"

"Several times, I think. He's still worried he'll be arrested for something. And I think he finds comfort in the fact someone knows what he's going through." He followed Lestrade into the office, and sat down in a chair opposite Lestrade's desk.

"Did you know before this case that…" Lestrade didn't finish the sentence. He sat down behind the desk and started looking through a file drawer.

"Um," John managed to say, at a loss. "No," he finally added. "His brother told me something." He didn't feel right discussing all of this without Sherlock's permission, even if Lestrade knew from the interview with Phillip what had happened to him.

Lestrade looked at him. "If I had known..." He trailed off and looked away again. The discomfort in the room was so apparent that John hoped Sherlock's conversation with Phillip would be over soon.

Of course, it wasn't. Fifteen minutes passed before Sherlock returned to the office as if no time had passed at all, and in that time all John and Lestrade managed to do was shift uncomfortably in their chairs and not look each other in the eye. "Do you have a tape of what that boy said? Or a transcript?" Sherlock sat down in the remaining chair.

This was enough to spur Lestrade into action, and he pulled a sheaf of papers out from a drawer. "Here is what was taken at the hospital. As I said, there were translation issues, so I'm not sure how much is reliable." He handed them over to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock scanned the first sheet. "He didn't know street names."

"No. He was too new to the city, apparently."

"He got into a car but wasn't able to recreate the path they took because it was too complex." Sherlock flipped the page. "The building the flat is in faces west, because he said when he was taken out of the building he could see the sun set. K - assuming this was K - dropped him off in a park nearby." He turned to the third page. "Oh!" he said in a sudden intake of breath.

"What did you see that's so important?" John asked Sherlock as he stood up and turned towards the desk in a dramatic twirl, grinning wildly.

"I know where this flat is! From what the boy said about the design of the building it has to be in one specific part of London, and that part should be near where both Phillip Rodgers and Moira Aherne live. If I go to that area in the day, it should be easy to find." He snapped his fingers.

"But didn't Phillip say he would be driven a long way when he went with this K?" Lestrade broke in.

Sherlock gave Lestrade his typical "you're an idiot" look. "Do remember that he had to keep his eyes shut the whole time. K could have driven in circles for who knows how long and Phillip wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Furthermore, the park where this boy was left is the same one Moira met K at, if his description is accurate."

Lestrade looked like he was going to say something, but he merely swallowed and nodded. After a few seconds of silence he added: "Just so you know, the father that was once a suspect is willing to be interviewed. He moved with his daughter to Manchester after he was cleared, but he wanted to find the person." He handed another form to Sherlock, like he was trying to cut off any further discussion. John looked at the form as Sherlock took it, a medical form about the boy (the form stated his name was Sagnik Malakar), and his eyes caught another name at the top.

"Dr. Arthur," he said to himself. Sherlock and Lestrade both turned to him. "Sarah mentioned him to me not too long ago. He was in the clinic asking for references of some sort. Since he's apparently in the area, someone could talk to him as well." He carefully left out the part where Sarah had mentioned horror stories about the man.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Let me look at more of those medical forms you have," he said and without waiting for permission dragged the folder from the desk. He flipped through the sheaf of papers, pulling out a few of them. "The girl with the father who moved to Manchester, is this her?" He held the paper in front of Lestrade's face.

"That's the girl," he confirmed.

"Dr. Arthur saw her too, and he was the one who claimed it was her father that had been abusing her. The other medical reports don't have his name on them." He handed the folder back to Lestrade and scowled. "I'd still like to speak to him."

"The father or Dr. Arthur?" John spoke up.

"Both of them." Sherlock turned to face the wall. "Dr. Arthur is the only one to name a specific person as a suspect, even though the girl didn't name one. I am curious about what led him to do so."

"Well, I can ring the man tomorrow and see if he wants you to come out there or whether he's willing to come to London to speak with you. Right now, I doubt he would be pleased with me if I asked." Lestrade stuffed the folder back in the drawer as he spoke. "There's some more paperwork I want to look at right now, but the two of you can head back home."

"It'd be good if we got a few hours of sleep," John agreed, tapping Sherlock's shoulder as he turned to leave.

They remained silent through the way out of the Yard and all of the cab ride home. John only dared to break the silence once they were back in 221B. "What did Phillip ask you about?" He wasn't sure he'd actually get an answer, but still felt the need to ask.

"He had some questions. I answered them," was Sherlock's terse response.

John knew better than to dig deeper into that. "Please get some sleep tonight," he found himself saying.

"I'll try to." The terseness was gone from his voice, leaving only a ghost of the former tone.

"I know you're taking this very personally, but that just means you have to do this right. You want to connect the dots so K is in jail for a long time."

Whether it was a result of that comment or not he didn't know, but suddenly a great fatigue showed on Sherlock's face. "I'm trying."

"I know you are. Running yourself into the ground isn't going to make things any better. Phillip and Moira are counting on you." John turned to go upstairs. To his surprise, Sherlock followed him; apparently he wasn't going to be spending the night downstairs.

"I can't let K get away with this." His voice was so quiet John wasn't sure he had spoken for a minute or two.

"You're not going to. It'll be easier to do it if you get some sleep, though." John reached out his hand and was halfway to Sherlock's shoulder before he thought better and withdrew.

"Phillip," Sherlock said then, and John wasn't sure how to respond.

"What about him?" he finally asked.

"He'll wind up like me." From the way he spoke it was clear Sherlock didn't consider that a compliment.

"Married to his work?" John carefully said. Sherlock nodded in response, and if John didn't know better he would think that Sherlock was close to tears. "Not if we find him," he said firmly. "And I'll do everything I can to help." He had no idea if what he said was comforting to Sherlock or not, as he merely nodded again and slipped silently into his room. John swallowed the lump in his throat and went upstairs to bed.


	15. Chapter 15

John was glad that he didn't have to go into the clinic the next day, as he was so exhausted he slept until ten in the morning. As soon as he woke up he reached for his mobile and dialed Sarah. "Do you know how to get hold of Dr. Arthur?" he asked as soon as she picked up. "Some records the Yard showed us yesterday had his name on them."

"I can give him your number and tell him to ring you, but I don't know if I can just give his number to you," she said. "Is whatever you saw in the records something you can discuss?"

"His name was on some of the reports. He also put in a statement that he thought the father of one of the victims was the culprit." John felt that was a safe statement to make.

"All right. I'll say it's a police matter and hopefully he'll get back to you. I'll see you on Monday?" The last part had an unstated "if you're not running somewhere with Sherlock on a case" clearly attached.

"You will," he said before disconnecting.

After showering and getting dressed, he went downstairs. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, although whether that was because he was still in his room or because he had taken off earlier he didn't know. Maybe he had already headed out to view the area that flat was in. Whatever the reason, he was glad for the quiet as he made tea and several slices of toast.

John had almost finished his breakfast when he heard a noise from the stairs. Sherlock appeared within a minute, wrapped in his dressing gown, a blank look on his face. Something about the way he looked made John refrain from telling him "good morning". The silence that hung in the air as Sherlock sat down on the couch and stared off into space wasn't much better.

Finally, unable to stand the quiet any longer, John said, "Are you going to wherever that flat is today? And are you just going there? It might be a good idea to talk to the landlord before doing anything else. At least you should call whoever it is after finding the building."

Sherlock's only response was a grunt of acknowledgement.

"I rang Sarah and she's going to give my number to Dr. Arthur, so he can get in touch with us," he tried this time. Still no response, and John felt a twinge of unease. "Sherlock?" Nothing. "You don't have to do this all at once," he added. "You're allowed to take a few days off."

"I'm going today," Sherlock responded, his voice flat. It was like all of the emotion had been bled out of him.

"To where the flat is?" John asked.

"Yes. Of course." He didn't elaborate.

"Are you still worried about Phillip?" John wasn't sure of the right way to broach the subject. Sherlock didn't do emotion, for the most part. Of course that didn't mean he didn't have feelings; John knew better than anyone else that the whole "high-functioning sociopath" bit was a cover for feelings he refused to express. But he kept his emotions so close to himself that it made whatever he felt barely register. Maybe it was just the personal connection, but this case had unwound him. Suddenly Sherlock was tender, rageful, saddened. And afraid.

"He is one of my primary concerns," Sherlock responded after a minute or so.

"You can worry about yourself, too," John reminded him.

Sherlock got up from the couch, like he hadn't heard him. "I expect us to be leaving for the general area by noon. I trust you will be ready then." He vanished into the stairwell and after a few minutes John could hear the shower running.

The shower ran for a good portion of the time before they left. John knew better than to comment on it, or ask about it in the first place, but not for the last time he wished he could just sit down and talk with Sherlock about the bee incident, the case, and everything else he hid behind that brick wall. However, he couldn't help but comment on the rubbish bag Sherlock had slung over his shoulder. "What's that?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at him for a second, damp hair falling in his face as he did so. "Rubbish," he told John, in a way that made it clear he didn't want to talk about it. And although that just made John even more curious about whatever he was throwing away, he said nothing as they left the flat and Sherlock chucked whatever was in it in the nearest bin. He knew that by the time they returned home it would be gone, and even if it wasn't John wanted to respect Sherlock's wish for privacy. True, Sherlock never respected his own, but he didn't think that sort of thing had to be reciprocal. Shortly thereafter Sherlock hailed a cab and John's train of thought was brought to an abrupt end.

The neighbourhood where Sherlock apparently had placed this flat was in fact near the Aherne's flat, and they even passed by that building on the cab ride there. The driver stopped in front of a nearby playground that was probably the one Moira Aherne had taken her dog to. Sherlock scrambled out right away, and John followed him after giving the driver the fare. Once the cab was gone, Sherlock turned in a circle, eyes wide open. He then cast his eyes up the street. "It's just up there. Come on, I want a closer look at the building." He sounded more like his normal investigative self, which made John feel slightly better.

In a few minutes both of them were standing in front of what seemed to be a perfectly ordinary building. John couldn't see anything that made it somehow stand out from the ones around it, but he did notice that in the ground floor flat all the windows were covered by curtains. Sherlock headed towards the front step without saying anything, and tilted his head so he could better examine one of the windows.

Suddenly, the front door opened. A short, petite woman with graying hair emerged.

"Hello, did you come about the flat on the third floor? It's still available. Quite a lot of people have come to look at it, but I'm the one that makes the final choice." She looked down the walkway at John. "Are you with him? Come over here, don't be shy. Better for anyone who's going to live there to see what it's like."

John took her advice, sort of, and walked up to the front step where the two of them were standing. "We're not here to see the flat," Sherlock said with authority. "Are you the landlady? I'd like to ask you some questions about your tenants."

The woman looked up and down at Sherlock before she said: "Ask away. Please keep in mind I've only managed this building for five years, so I can't tell you any farther back."

"Why are all the curtains drawn on the ground floor flat? Is the renter a night shift worker?" He sounded like he had no idea who lived there himself, and was just asking because he was curious.

"No idea," she said matter-of-factly. "My mystery tenant is there."

"What's so mysterious about this tenant?" Sherlock inquired.

She raised her eyebrows before she spoke, like she wasn't sure he'd believe her. "All I know is that the person who rented it made the offer before my time. In the past five years I've never seen the renter at all. Other people in the building have heard noises in there, and the few times I've gone in there myself I've seen some furniture and odds and ends, but never a person. Very odd. The tenant - a Dana Lester - sends me checks every month like clockwork, so it's not like I can evict them, and the flat's always clean."

"Do you have copies of those checks on file?" John broke in. At the very least it might be something K could be traced from.

"Yes I do, young man, but those won't be much help if you're looking for this Dana Lester. All starter checks. You boys don't really remember when everyone had to write checks, but the bank would always give you a few of them without a name or address on them to get you started. No store would take them, but you could still use them for individual people. And the numbers are always different after about eight of them or so. Whoever Dana Lester may be, they make sure to cover their tracks." She nodded sagely. "I sometimes wonder if all that isn't on the up and up, but there's nothing in the flat that would tell you that."

"Can we see the flat, at least?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course you can. If something isn't right there I'd want to know about it. I'll take you boys in." The woman led them through the door and towards the door of the ground floor flat. She selected one of a ring of keys and opened the door. "Hello?" she called as she stepped through the door. "It's the landlady, Mrs. Murray." No one responded, but neither John nor Sherlock seemed surprised by this. They walked in after her.

The first thing that John noticed was the minimal furniture. It wasn't a particularly large flat, so there wasn't really room for a lot of belongings, but all that was in the living area that bordered the kitchen was a couch, a throw rug, and a coffee table. The kitchen had no microwave, or for that matter any other appliances; all that was there was a stove, refrigerator, and some cupboards. The second thing was how clean it seemed. If K really didn't live here, he still had to put some effort into cleaning the place. Of course, if he really brought his victims to this place cleaning it would effectively remove most evidence. Mrs. Murray shook her head in silent disapproval before leading them down the hall to the one bedroom. It was also furnished minimally; there was only a king-size bed with no headboard or footboard tucked in the corner and a chest of drawers. There wasn't even a bedside table with a lamp and a clock. Sherlock strode up to the bed and bent over the covers, sniffing audibly. "These sheets were recently washed," he said. "Is there a laundry in this building?"

"No laundry, but this flat has a washer and dryer." Mrs. Murray stepped out of the bedroom and opened the other hall door, which revealed a washer and dryer stacked on each other. "The only laundry nearby lost a few of my things right after I moved in here, so I made sure the tenants all had their own. Of course my mystery tenant already had a set."

"Very convenient," John said in a tone heavy with meaning.

"Well, I try to make the lives of the people living here easier," Mrs. Murray told him, and John wasn't sure if she hadn't caught his meaning or had but was choosing to ignore it.

Sherlock took a few more circles around the flat before nodding to himself, apparently satisfied with something. "I don't think there's anything more to be seen here. Mrs. Murray, I know you said before you have copies of all the starter checks Dana Lester has given you. Do you have those here right now?"

She nodded. "They're in my flat on the second floor. I'll go and get them for you." After a few minutes she returned with a manila folder in her hands. "This is everything; the checks but also anything else I noticed about my little mystery tenant. As I said before, I'm not sure it's all on the up and up but the rent was paid every month and the checks never bounce so it's not like I can ring up Scotland Yard and tell them that my tenant only pays me with starter checks."

"Very smart of you," John said with approval. Clearly this Mrs. Murray didn't miss much. Sherlock took the folder from her hands and was beginning to look inside it when John's mobile rang. He brought it out of his pocket and put it to his ear. "Hello?" he asked.

"You must be Dr. Watson. This is Dr. Ronald Arthur, and I was informed by your co-worker that you wanted to speak to me on an official police matter?" Dr. Arthur's words were polite but the tone he used indicated he resented whatever John wanted to ask before he did so. He sounded like the sort of physician who thought their medical degree made them superior to the rest of mankind.

"Yes, me and my friend Sherlock. He works for the Yard," John replied.

"Well, right now I'm back at Bart's to collect some things Sarah saved for me, and if you can be there in an hour or so I suppose I can speak to the both of you." The fact Dr. Arthur had addressed him by title but had referred to Sarah by her first name was not lost on him. There could be several reasons for that, but John felt it was probably the old failsafe reason "he's a sexist git". That would explain why Sarah apparently held him in such low regard.

"We'll be there in an hour," John promised, and hung up. Sherlock looked up from the folder to him. "That was Dr. Arthur. He's at Bart's right now and said if we get there soon he can speak to us."

"Excellent. I need to ask him some very important questions." Sherlock sounded completely like himself again, and that was a relief.

"I can't let you boys leave without something to eat," Mrs. Murray told them. "If you'll wait a minute I'll bring you some dinner."

"That would be good, thank you," John said before Sherlock could object. He was hungry and knew better than to think Sherlock would want to go anywhere besides Bart's when they got out of here. Mrs. Murray soon returned with a large brown bag that smelled of cooking oil.

"Fish and chips, of course. My oldest grandchild is coming by and she's always been a fan of my fish." She handed the bag to John and then patted him on the shoulder. "Now keep me updated on whatever Dana Lester's been up to; it's not very fair if I don't get to find out the end of the mystery. You boys take care."

Once the two of them were seated in a cab on their way to Bart's, Sherlock spoke up. "K works the swing shift. It's probably not a full time position, but that makes little difference to K. K was born wealthy."

John stopped halfway in the process of bringing a piece of fish to his mouth. "I suppose K must have some additional means of income to keep up a flat he doesn't actually live in, but where did all that come from?"

"K is easily able to reach the Aherne's flat at night despite not living in the area. If K worked a normal day shift position there would be a risk of being seen in the area before nightfall. K keeps the second flat well maintained but can't be seen there too often. Therefore K either brings victims there before the day shift ends, so adults are not at home to witness them but children are already out of school, or after the swing shift is over. Phillip, and presumably several other victims, come from homes where they would not be missed in those hours; distant or abusive parents, and single parents who work night shifts. They are the ones who will spend the night at the flat, and of course all of them appreciate the closeness that results. Moira would be missed if she vanished and as a result K decided entering the flat through the window at night would be safer. K's furniture in the other flat is minimal but well-made. Oak, not quite antique but older items of high quality. K must have no sentimental attachment to them since K doesn't feel the need to keep them in residence. They are obviously discards from a collection of furniture, likely from K's parents. If K's parents no longer need them, they are presumably not alive, and if they were wealthy enough to buy these pieces when alive K would have inherited a significant amount of money on their deaths." He stopped for a moment and looked out the window, one hand turning white-knuckled on the folder as he grasped it.

"What about the starter checks?" John asked. Truthfully he wasn't sure they had any relevance at all, but it was such a strange detail it stuck with him.

"K periodically starts checking accounts and closes others. Doing so enables K to have a constant string of starter checks with no identification on them. K uses false identification to open and close these accounts, of course, and has probably used that false identification to obtain credit cards in their names. This also gives K plenty of resources if a victim dares to speak and ample means to flee the country. All of these things point to some form of independent wealth. If K had worked for all that money K would still have many demands at the job, even at a position passed on from parent to child or one that was largely a figurehead position."

"He's prepared for almost anything," John said with a faint sense of horror. If K was really so careful it was going to be hard to catch him.

"Our advantage is that K does not know at this time about the investigation, or the flat would have been vacated. K washes the bedding on the one bed every time a sexual encounter occurs so no forensic evidence is left. The fact that something like that is still going on, even after the incident at the Aherne's, indicates that K is confident no one will talk or has talked." He now had both hands in a white-knuckle grip on the folder.

"I presume Dana Lester is an alias?" One good thing about Sherlock's long deductions was that John had plenty of time to eat while he spoke.

"Of course, one of many. I would not be surprised if K had several flats for sexual encounters." He looked out the window then, and John fully expected him to start talking about K again, but he remained silent on the rest of the ride to Bart's. John ate the rest of the fish and chips in silence.

John led the way into the clinic, hoping Sarah would know where Dr. Arthur had decided to wait for them. She spotted him before he saw her, and waved to him. She ducked into an examination room and John followed, Sherlock trailing silently behind. "Thank you for getting here, John. If I have to hear that man tell one more idiotic 'joke' I'll be part of your next murder investigation." She raised her eyes to the ceiling. "I hope he gives you some good information, but mind you he can be very certain about things, no matter the facts. I remember when a well-known child psychologist was due to give a lecture here, Dr. Tracy Newsome, and Dr. Arthur kept going on about how he wanted to talk to him. Bit of a shock when he was face to face with Dr. Tracy _Alice_ Newsome," she added, clearly amused by the memory. "Anyway, he's in the conference room on the second floor. You know where that is."

"Yes I do. Let's go," John said and once again led the way. Sherlock followed but appeared lost in thought, like he was in the midst of yet another deduction. Hopefully he wasn't so lost that he wouldn't question Dr. Arthur, since John had no idea what he should ask the man.

Dr. Arthur was seated at the head of the table, even though he was the only person in the room. He was dark-haired and immaculately dressed, like he had been cut and pasted from a magazine. "Dr Watson?" he said as John and Sherlock went into the room. "Dr. Arthur." He extended his hand and John shook it (it felt like shaking hands with a pickled herring) but when he extended his hand to Sherlock all Sherlock did was glare at him. Looking offended, he sat at the head of the table again. "What is this investigation you're asking me about?" said Dr. Arthur, who was obviously trying to regain his composure.

"It's an abuse investigation," John supplied. "A serial sexual offender who hasn't been identified. Two patients you examined in the A&E have been pinned down as possible victims, Sagnik Malakar and Jennifer Ogbeide-Bena. Do you remember them?" He pulled out a chair for Sherlock, but he didn't sit down and continued to rock on the balls of his feet. Dr. Arthur looked disgusted.

"The boy was the one that didn't speak much English, if I recall. He said he'd been picked up in a car and taken to a flat where he engaged in sexual activity with the person driving the car. There were translation issues, if I recall." He kept his eyes fixed on John, seemingly ignoring Sherlock's presence in the room.

"Did he tell you anything about the perpetrator?" Sherlock spoke up.

"Not much, truthfully." Dr. Arthur was still looking at John, like he had been the one to ask. "He said the car was blue and the flat was clean, but he seemed dazed."

"Did you draw his blood for drug testing?" Sherlock looked him in the eye. "If he was dazed it could have been from administration of a benzodiazepine."

Dr. Arthur had the grace to blush as he said: "No, I'm sorry, that didn't occur to me. It was hard to tell if he was truly out of sorts or just had poor English skills." He sounded dismissive, and John figured he could add "prejudiced" to his mental list of traits of Dr. Arthur.

"Because he was from Bangladesh, of course any communication issues had to be a matter of intelligence or language skill." It was clear that Sherlock was scornful, probably for the same reason John was starting to dislike the man.

"Perhaps. He had no injuries other than some mild bruising of the thigh and shoulder. That's all I remember from his case. You mentioned another child?" He sounded eager to change the subject.

"Jennifer Ogbeide-Bena," Sherlock confirmed. "Brought here by her father. You stated in your report that you felt her father was responsible."

"Oh, yes, I remember that case. There were some signs of sexual abuse on the exam, mostly reduced rectal tone and a patent vagina. Father claimed she'd said a lewd phrase to him, which made him come to the A&E with her. There was a custody battle at the time as well, with the mother." He seemed pleased he remembered that much, almost like he wanted to get credit from Sherlock for this.

"That's in the record," Sherlock said dismissively. "You placed a report saying the father was the suspected abuser. Why did you say that? The girl never told anyone about that."

"Well, the father was fighting the mother for custody. A man who wants to take a little girl from her mother? It doesn't make sense. Also, the perpetrator was probably someone known to the child, and statistically it was most likely to be the father." He seemed pleased with his logic.

"Statistics are all well and good, but did you have any evidence that the father was responsible besides the statistics?" Sherlock's gaze burned into Dr. Arthur.

"The girl was so reluctant to talk about who had hurt her 'down there' that it made me suspicious. The father would be the person who she would most want to protect."

"If he really was the one abusing her, why did he bring her here? You stated yourself it was because of something obscene she said, not because he saw any physical injury." John wanted to cheer Sherlock on but did not. Still, he couldn't deny there was a certain pleasure in seeing him savage Dr. Arthur's logic.

Dr. Arthur rose out of his chair, not quite at eye level to Sherlock. "He presumably wished to blame it on the mother's boyfriend or someone who was important to her," he snapped.

"If he was intending to do that he did a remarkably bad job of it, since he said on the record he had no idea who might have taught her to say that. He said her mother had a drug habit but wasn't seeing anyone." In contrast to Dr. Arthur's outburst, Sherlock seemed calm and collected.

"Enough! I have explained my reasoning to you already! If all you can do is attack me then this conversation is over." Without another word but clearly seething with rage, Dr. Arthur stormed out the door and into the confines of the hospital. Sherlock watched him walk away with a small smile on his face. Apparently the conversation had been helpful to him at the very least.

"Jennifer's father, the one who wants to speak to us, Michael Ogbeide. He's also an immigrant. The records said he came here from Sierra Leone as a teenager," he said with satisfaction.

"So Dr. Arthur assumed some foreigner had to be responsible, because he's a racist and sexist git," John added. "Now I know why Sarah had so many horror stories about him."

Sherlock looked like he was about to comment further, but at that moment his mobile rang. "Lestrade?" he said as he brought the device to his ear. "Oh, that's good. When does he want to meet with us? Next Friday? I'm sure that can be arranged." He hung up. "Speaking of the man, he got in touch with Lestrade and said he was coming to the Yard next Friday and he's willing to speak with us."

They started towards the lift. As they were waiting, John commented, "I hope you were recording that conversation with Dr. Arthur, just for the record." Sherlock grinned wickedly and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the same tape recorder he had used for Moira's questioning. Suddenly all this seemed hilariously funny, and John burst into peals of laughter. Sherlock looked at him for a second before starting to laugh himself. It was a relief to have something to laugh about. John was glad for anything that diffused the horrible nature of the crime, and Sherlock more than anyone else needed something to laugh at.


	16. Chapter 16

Once they had finally got a solid lead that could lead them to K, like the flat and the checks, John was sure that the case would be wrapped up soon, or at least move quickly. So little happened between that day and the Friday they met Michael Ogbeide that it was like nothing had developed at all. Lestrade had only spoken to them once more, saying that if K was found and it came to that he could at least be taken in on fraud charges for renting the flat under false identification.

Nothing had developed in the case, that was true, but John couldn't say that about the rest of his life. Two conversations, one he had with Sherlock and one he happened to overhear, revealed several unsettling things. The first one had occurred after supper the day they had talked to Dr. Arthur. "He didn't lie," Sherlock had said suddenly. He was lying on the couch with one arm draped over his eyes. After eating a few bites he had left the kitchen and perched himself on the couch. For the past half hour he had seemed lost to the world.

"Dr. Arthur?" said a bewildered John, who wasn't sure why this was coming up or why Sherlock had picked now to say it.

"Yes, him. He showed a stubborn refusal to admit the existence of viewpoints other than his own, but he didn't lie. He did not even lie by omission or by crafting his words so someone would get the opposite impression of what was true, as so many do."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience." If he was trying to make a point about the case John couldn't make the connection.

"You engage in the practice on occasion." He didn't sound accusatory, but just like he was stating a fact. "When people assume we are in a romantic relationship you frequently respond that you are not gay. This makes others assume you are heterosexual because they cannot think of more than two options."

"Were you just bringing up Dr. Arthur as an excuse to talk about this?" John replied.

"No."

"Because you haven't mentioned it before."

"I don't choose what you would say in any particular situation."

"That's not an answer." He was positive that Sherlock wasn't bringing up the subject because the response he gave somehow bothered him; if that was truly the case he would have said something long ago. But he had no idea why he was bringing it up. It could relate to the case, or the bee incident, or some third subject that hadn't been broached yet.

"No. It is merely an observation." He hadn't moved once since the conversation had begun.

"Yes. But you're bringing it up for a reason. Even if it's got nothing to do with what's been going on recently, you didn't just say that because you felt it needed to be said." John thought it was strange that someone as intelligent as Sherlock would spend so much time talking in circles. A thought occurred to him. "Did Phillip call you today?"

"He hasn't called me today," Sherlock told him.

"And he hasn't e-mailed you or anything like that?" It didn't take a genius to figure out why Sherlock was being so encouraging with Phillip. However, the emotions it seemed to bring up in him made John wish he could just talk about it like anyone else would. "Since we're talking about lying by omission here," he added.

"We have not been in communication since the last call you witnessed," was Sherlock's reply.

"Then please tell me why you brought this up."

John half-expected Sherlock to fall into one of his silent sulks, but to his surprise he responded with: "Why do you say that?"

"You could have just asked me," John said, resisting the urge to laugh.

"Well, I'm doing that now." He sounded sulky, but at least was not silent.

"People want to know whether I'm in a relationship with you. Just saying 'no' wouldn't end those questions, but if I imply I'd never be interested at all it ends things. And it means you don't have to answer any questions." He paused. "You don't like to talk about sex or relationships with other people, at least not if it relates to you."

Sherlock finally removed his arm from his eyes, and half-sat up. "That's... kind of you."

"I'm aware you have feelings, Sherlock, no matter how much you try to deny them."

"You were interested in a relationship with me when we first met," he abruptly said.

"Yes, I was," said John, truthfully.

"But not now." He was accusatory.

"You told me you weren't interested. I accepted that."

"Are you still interested?"

John swallowed. There wasn't really a good way to answer that. "It would depend. Since you told me you were married to your work I took that to mean you were not interested in romantic relationships. I still wanted to be your friend. I still am. I think this case is stirring up a lot of feelings in you and that's why you're thinking about relationships so much. And knowing all that I don't think you're fully in a position where you can determine that. After this case is over that might be different."

He wasn't sure if that sounded like reassurance or a gigantic waffle, but Sherlock seemed to think it was a good answer. "I see," he said as he nodded. Them his arm went back over his eyes and the subject was dropped.

A couple of nights later John woke up for no reason he could discern. His bedside clock declared it was two in the morning, and he was about to roll over and go back to sleep when he heard something outside his door. "As I've said before, Phillip, I don't sleep much. You've never woken me up." Sherlock was speaking in a perfectly ordinary voice, so he had to be right outside the room, maybe sitting on the stairs. John very much doubted that Sherlock knew he was lying awake right now, but at the same time the fact he'd chosen this spot to have the conversation meant he didn't mind being overheard. "You are up late, though."

While it didn't feel right to just eavesdrop, he didn't know if any sound of outsiders would make Phillip stop talking. And if he really found talking to Sherlock so therapeutic, John wasn't going to be the one to stop it. "Do you dislike sleep for the dreams or for something else?" A pause, presumably Phillip talking. "I understand that. You're not the only one." Sherlock chuckled softly. "Yes, I do, but there were a lot of years of isolation in between." He sounded similar to when he talked to Moira, soft and gentle, but at the same time there was another element to it. It wasn't exactly paternal, but more like giving advice as an older brother would. "In secondary school? Yes, one. Until I got sent to boarding school. Then my mother died and I never was able to find out what happened to him." It was hard to tell whether he was talking about his abuser or someone else who just happened to be his friend. _No, wait a minute,_ he thought. _He mentioned secondary school and he knew the abuser since he was four. This has to be a friend._

"That's very direct of you. The answer is yes. And the answer is yes to that as well. No, that doesn't change what I said before." John heard shuffling. "I understand that too. There's not an answer to that. Phillip, you're – " Sherlock abruptly stopped talking. "No," he began again after a long pause. "None of that is true." His voice was quieter. "And you can..." Each word was softer than the next, so that after the "can" John was unable to discern any of the conversation. After a few minutes Sherlock spoke in a normal voice. "Yes, you should go to bed. Please remember you can ring me any time and I will talk to you. You are never an inconvenience. Good night, Phillip." He heard the creak of someone going down the steps. John lay there in the dark for what seemed like a long time, unable to get the conversation out of his head, even if he hadn't understood most of it. He didn't mention what he had overheard the next morning, and if Sherlock was truly aware that he had been listening he never let on. Despite that, John was almost certain he knew, and that he had intentionally let him hear the conversation. What that meant he couldn't figure out.

It was almost a relief to head down to Scotland Yard that Friday for their talk with Michael Ogbeide. John had been unable to have any sort of real conversation with Sherlock after overhearing him talk to Phillip. He'd said a few things, but only a sentence or two at a time. Fortunately, Sherlock was in one of his silent moods, and would only nod or shake his head to any conversation. Perhaps that was due to the three additional bags of "rubbish" he'd felt the need to get rid of. (John knew better than to ask what was in them, and he resisted the urge to look inside them before they were collected.) Even now, they both looked out opposing windows and tried not to acknowledge the other person in the cab with them. When they walked into the Yard, John trailed behind him all the way to the interview room, not wanting to get too close.

Michael Ogbeide had arrived before they had and was sitting in the room with Lestrade. When he saw John and Sherlock walk into the room he stood up and offered his hand. "You must be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," he said, in a cultured tone with only a hint of his native language behind it. He was about John's size, but leaner, with skin the color of dark chocolate.

"Yes, and we're here to talk to you," Sherlock said.

"Should I be going?" Lestrade asked. "Tape recorder's here and you've wanted to interview the others by yourself."

"Do whatever you need to do, you're not needed here," Sherlock said dismissively.

Once Lestrade had left the interview room, Mr. Ogbeide, Sherlock, and John arranged themselves in the remaining chairs. Sherlock stopped to push the record button on the tape recorder before speaking again. "As you know, Mr. Ogbeide, we're investigating a series of cases of child abuse, and your daughter has been mentioned as a potential victim." He nodded, and Sherlock continued. "You are on the record as having brought your daughter to the A&E at Bart's. Can you explain why you did this?"

Mr. Ogbeide swallowed visibly, and looked away from the both of them. "That's – well, I'm not even sure where to begin. It wasn't just one thing, you know. It was a series of things. In hindsight it all fits together but I wasn't able to make the connections at the time."

"All right." Sherlock's voice was soft. "Perhaps we should start with something easier. Do you have a picture of your daughter with you?"

Mr. Ogbeide reached for his wallet and pulled it out of his pocket. He opened it and revealed a picture of a mocha-skinned small girl, about six years old. Her dark brown hair was pulled into multiple small braids and she wore some sort of school uniform. Her smile revealed a missing front tooth. "That's Jennifer. When this was taken she'd been with me for a year after being in care and her mother being arrested."

"Her mother was arrested?" Sherlock inquired.

He nodded. "It's – well, it's a very long story."

"We'd like to hear anything that you think is relevant," John broke in. Sherlock nodded in his direction as he said this, so he clearly thought that was the case as well.

"I met Jennifer's mother, Debra Bena, almost eight years ago. At a particularly low class club, I'm sorry to say. I was a foolish person then, not concerned with much but having a good time and doing the easiest work possible. She was a good dancer, liked to drink, and had lovely long brown hair. All of that was enough to intrigue me, and we both wanted the same things. So our good times became shared ones. I don't think either of us took our relationship very seriously until Debra got pregnant. Not a birth control failure, as we took no precautions in the first place. She said she wanted us to raise the child together, and I agreed with her. I don't know if either of you have children, but you're both aware that a child changes a person, for better or for worse." He looked down at his daughter's picture. "So I decided I should get my act together. Stopped all the clubbing, found a better job. Debra had a difficult pregnancy and had to spend most of it on bed rest. But when Jennifer was born all seemed well. Debra wanted to stay at home with Jennifer and I agreed to that. Looking at it now I think she had post-partum depression, but I didn't see it at the time. She wasn't taking care of Jennifer, just staying in bed. When she was three it got to the point where I didn't feel safe leaving her with her mother, so I left and filed for custody. Debra filed in response and we each had her alternating weeks. I think she started using drugs before I left, but I know she was using them a few weeks after I left. She used crystal mostly, and MDMA. According to her she kept it from Jennifer, and I think that was mostly true."

There was a long pause. "Go on," Sherlock encouraged him.

"The week I brought Jennifer to the A&E I had only had her for a day and a half. It had been a hard week anyway. Debra and I had argued over the drugs again. Like with her mother's depression, I think there were signs I was missing there, but I didn't put them together. I was about to put her down for a nap and as she got into bed she said something I didn't catch. I asked her, 'What did you say?' and she said it again. This time I heard it." His voice broke, but he did not tear up.

"What did she say?" asked John.

"She said, 'Fuck me.' I said to her, 'What?' Children pick up all sorts of phrases they don't know the meaning of, and that's what I thought this was. So she says it again. I sat down on the edge of the bed because I thought I might pass out. Jennifer crawled into my lap and said, 'Please fuck me.' My whole body was numb but I managed to ask her what she meant. She took a few of her fingers and pretended to jam them up between her legs. 'Like my friend does,' and she looked at me like I had to know what she was talking about. That's when I picked her up and told her we were going for a ride."

"Did she say anything to you about the friend?" Sherlock locked eyes with him.

"Nothing. Of course when we got to A&E she was in hysterics and said she didn't want to see the doctor and wasn't sick. The doctor that did talk to her seemed more interested in me than her. Then someone from social services came and told me that she needed to go into care while this was all sorted out. I had to call Debra, and she was furious at me, of course, but she didn't seem shocked by everything. I didn't want to think then why that might be the case, and as far as I knew she wasn't seeing anyone. After that I was questioned by the social workers and the police about my relationship with my daughter." The last sentence was still tinged with bitterness. "Nothing came about from it, of course, and the carers for Jennifer didn't ever hear about her 'friend'. In the middle of all that Debra was arrested for possession. She still wasn't working."

"When did the dealer tell you that she was involved in solicitation?" Sherlock asked, like he was talking about the weather.

"After she was sentenced. The social services workers were moving to terminate her parental rights and were trying to work out a plan for me to get Jennifer back." Mr. Ogbeide sounded remarkably calm. His voice no longer wavered. "The man appeared on the steps of my flat and said he wanted to talk to me, said he'd known Debra. I wanted nothing to do with him, but he said he thought there was something he should tell me about my daughter. That caught my attention. He told me that she often bought 'substances' from him. Since he noticed she didn't work, he asked her where she was getting the money, and if it was support money. She told him there were ways, and didn't seem too bothered about it. A few days after he asked that he was leaving the flat and saw Jennifer standing by the door. She asked him if he was coming to take her away. He thought that was strange and asked where she thought he'd take her. She said, 'To the fucking room.' He was disturbed enough to leave and not go back to the flat again." The calmness had faded into a flat tone. "Apparently that was all he knew, but he told me when I got her back I should leave the area."

"Did Jennifer ever talk to you about those things once you got her back?" Sherlock also sounded flat.

"No, I'm afraid. I've never had the courage to ask her and I know she wouldn't understand what I meant if I asked about being sold." He looked to the ground. "That's all I know about this. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"On the contrary, Mr. Ogbeide, this has been a very useful conversation, and I'm glad to have spoken with you." Sherlock rose from his chair and turned off the recorder.

"Thank you. I've got to run; Jennifer's waiting for me." He took Sherlock's hand and briefly shook it before heading out the door. A few seconds after Mr. Ogbeide left Lestrade walked back into the room.

"Did you get anything useful?" he inquired.

"Yes. K's wealth is extensive enough that when no one else is available, children to assault can be bought." Sherlock was back to his calm deducting voice, even when Lestrade gasped in shock. "Jennifer Ogbeide-Bena was one of them, and that money went to her mother's drug habit. Since one threat she probably heard was that she'd be taken away from home if she told, her enforced stint in care was enough to make her not say anything again. Like Moira Aherne, but more severe." He turned for the door. "You may listen to the recording. John and I are going back home."

Once the two of them were in a cab and on the way back home, the silence that had permeated the trip there returned. Truthfully, John didn't have the slightest clue what he might say and was glad for it. He didn't want to look at Sherlock at all. If everything that he'd heard had disturbed him this much, he couldn't imagine what Sherlock must be feeling now. When they got home, Sherlock went straight to his room and slammed the door shut. John distracted himself by taking up an invitation from Mrs. Hudson to join her for dinner and a movie (she liked James Bond just as much as he did) and that was enough to put him in a better mood. He didn't see Sherlock when he got back upstairs and went to bed in silence.

He woke up at seven in the morning, vaguely aware of noise from outside. Wondering what could possibly be going on, he threw on some clothes and headed downstairs.

"Are you here for a reason?" drifted up from the window. John looked out and saw Sherlock standing in front of Phillip Rodgers, hands in his coat pockets.

"I've got something for you," Phillip said as he handed Sherlock a piece of paper. "This might help."

Whether Sherlock was aware that John was watching from the window, he didn't know. He grinned and although he was too far away to see, John imagined that his eyes had just lit up. "Oh, yes, this will be very helpful. I'll go right now. Thank you, Phillip." He twirled and looked like he was about to dart off without a second thought, but stopped after a few steps and turned around. "Go home, Phillip, or go somewhere safe." Phillip said nothing in response, but nodded and walked back in the direction he'd come from.

In a few seconds Sherlock would be out of sight. John knew he had to act now, so he grabbed his mobile and gun, pulled his coat on, and ran out the door to shadow him.


	17. Chapter 17

My apologies for the delay in this. My beta appears to have vanished, and I've decided to just post the chapters I have now and clean them up when she gets back to me. I'll try to upload one every few days. edit: Thank you nightsky for backup betaing!

John realized quickly that it was good he had his wallet on him; Sherlock was apparently heading to the railway station. Fortunately, he seemed so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he didn't notice he had a follower. He curtly informed the man at the ticket booth that he was going to Yorkshire, shoved money at him, and took off toward the platform. John quickly bought a ticket for himself and returned to shadowing Sherlock. He attempted to ring Lestrade but only was able to leave a message. "Sherlock got some information from Phillip Rodgers that caused him to take off for Yorkshire. I'm not sure what he's up to but am following him. I'll give you a location as soon as I have it." He hoped that Lestrade would get the message as soon as possible.

When the train arrived he knew he would have to get into the same car as Sherlock, and could figure out no way to make himself less noticeable. However, Sherlock seemed so distracted that John figured that if he just chose one of the more unobtrusive seats he wouldn't be noticed, and he was right. Sherlock spent the entire two hour trip staring blankly out a window. John felt anxious, (I don't think you have to have a comma here) himself. If they really were heading to the residence of the mysterious K, alias name Dana Lester, he wasn't sure what they would do. Even he knew you couldn't arrest the man without some evidence, and someone appearing at his house and telling him they were on to him just provided an incentive to flee. Maybe Phillip had included something that he could be arrested for, provided the Yarders showed up at the house? Of course there was the charge about the flat, but could he really be detained for that in the same way for a more serious crime?

The plus of thinking about all this was that it made the train ride fly by, and before he knew it they were at their station and Sherlock was marching off to wherever he was going. He didn't hail a cab; he just walked down one of the side roads purposefully. John trailed him at a distance. This area was not quite suburban or rural but rather something in between. The size of the houses in the area indicated this was a wealthy district. He texted Lestrade as he walked, telling him what he could figure out of his surroundings.

Sherlock finally stopped in front of a long walkway leading to a large sprawling house. The grounds looked well tended, the driveway and the walkway were both in good condition, and the house looked cheerful. It seemed to be the last place you'd look for a criminal like K. He looked briefly at the paper in his hands before heading down to the house. John, after sending one last text that named the street and house number, headed there himself. Just before he got to the door, Sherlock spun around and stared back at John. "How long have you been following me?" he asked.

"Since you talked to Phillip," John responded.

"Did you ring Lestrade?"

"Texted him too."

"Well, if you're going to be that way about it, come up here. We can do this together." There was a quaver in Sherlock's voice, and John thought he looked paler than usual, almost ghostlike. When the two of them were side by side, John put two fingers on his hand and found it icy to the touch. Without really thinking about it, he took his hand. Sherlock looked surprised at first, and then smiled wanly. They walked the rest of the way to the house like that, silently.

John figured he'd have to be the one who knocked on the door, but to his surprise Sherlock used his free hand to knock. In a few seconds the door swung open. A woman regarded the two of them. She was several inches shorter than John, with long black hair neatly pulled back. As near as he could tell, she was in her fifties, with lines forming on her forehead and crow's feet near her brown eyes. She seemed like a warm, motherly person, the type you felt at ease around. She was holding a dish in her hands, as if she had been interrupted while doing the dishes. "May I help you?" she asked. John just stared back. It seemed unreal that K was married, even if he logically knew lots of child molesters were married. Sherlock's hand was now shaking in his. Before either of them could say anything, her eyes narrowed. "Sherlock Holmes," she said with surprise, and smiled at him. "It's been so long since I've seen you. I'd say you had grown, but you really haven't; you might be a little skinnier though. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

John was about to ask her if her husband was in, but Sherlock spoke first. "Phillip sent me," he said, and to John's surprise his voice was shaking with fear. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and the woman spoke again.

"You haven't changed, have you?" she said, still smiling. "Most children, you see them as adults and they hardly look the same. You're the same, though. Not even a hair on your face." She traced his chin with one finger, and John realized that Sherlock was now clutching his hand in a death grip.

"You haven't changed, either," Sherlock's voice still shook. "Phillip. Have you had enough of him yet?"

"Phillip is quite a boy, you know. He reminds me so much of you. So sad because his father is gone and his mummy doesn't love him. No brother, though. Or bee." While the woman still looked like she had before, John felt a terrible sense of unease. She no longer looked warm or anything like a person you would trust. Even her smile suddenly seemed sinister. "But of course at least I love him. Just like you."

John wasn't sure why it took him so long to make the connection. Perhaps it was just because he had a different mental picture. But the last bit of conversation hit him like a bus, and he suddenly, horribly, realized the truth.

_This_ was K.

He knew that he really should have known better, that he didn't know anything about K to make a mental image of the person. But truthfully he had never once thought of K as being anyone but a man. If he had to line up potential child abusers, and K was included, he'd have put her dead last. It only took a second to make the next horrible connection.

K was the neighbor Sherlock had "told horrible lies" about. And he had known that, or at least suspected, and that was why he was so nervous. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock had never once referred to K by gender. While almost everyone got into the habit of calling K by her first initial, when gendered pronouns were used everyone but Sherlock called K male. Even some little details made sense, like why Moira had refused to talk to Donovan or why Phillip was so convinced that he'd be arrested. John shamefully realized that if K had come in and claimed to have been assaulted by him, and Phillip had agreed, he would have taken it at face value and called the police on him.

"Is this your boyfriend?" K went on in a cheerful voice. "I wouldn't have suspected that, you know. You were always so enthusiastic. Was it just that no other woman could compare?"

Sherlock's terror seemed to only be growing by the minute, and he stared blankly at her with no inkling of a response. John wanted to punch the woman, but he knew that would be hard to explain to the police if it came to that. The police would see the same kind looking woman John had seen at first. "Kelly," Sherlock finally choked out. "Kelly Martin."

"Dr. Martin," she corrected him. "You knew that, though. Remember all those times you went to the clinic with me after school? I wondered if you'd be a doctor yourself, since you always seemed so interested in my medical books."

"You broke his arm," Sherlock whispered. "Why?"

She continued on like she hadn't heard the question. "Are you still friends with that boy I saw you with? Was he your boyfriend too? Nosy little thing, he was."

"You're going to hell for this," John blurted out. "You're going to pay."

She smiled that same sinister smile. "For what? I had an agreement with your boyfriend and now I have an agreement with his little friend. Maybe you're just not satisfying him. Do you know how randy he gets? He'll practically beg you to fuck him. I saw him ask for it so many times."

John realized in that second she was not trying to convince him all of it was consensual at all, but rather to humiliate Sherlock enough that he wouldn't be able to talk about any of this. Not that he did now, but he was at least able to talk about Phillip. Even now Sherlock continued to tremble, and he seemed terrified in a way John's never seen before.

"It was your friend who got your little bee burned, you know. I know he was putting ideas in your head. Your mummy told me all about it." She once again reached out to touch Sherlock's chin, tracing it with her finger. While he started to shake even more, he made no effort to move. "She was upset about how ungrateful you were to me, how you'd come over and refused to leave so many times and she had to make sure you were behaving yourself. I was kind about that, remember? I said you weren't any trouble, but we both know that's not true." Dr. Martin looked like she was in the depths of fond memories. "Remember the games we used to play? You missed your big brother, how he'd pick you up and whirl you around. I'd always whirl you around, though. Round and round. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear..."

"It was. He. No." The idea that Sherlock Holmes was unable to put his thoughts into words was the most frightening thing about the situation. "He didn't do anything. We just talked."

"I could always tell them you helped at the clinic with the little ones. Weren't you my best helper?" Dr. Martin looked pointedly at John.

"I may not know you at all, but all I've heard here is that you're a monster and my friend – not my boyfriend for the record, although it shouldn't matter – my best friend, isn't guilty of anything but being your victim." John didn't bother to keep the fury out of his voice. He could feel Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten. "And if you try to leave this country, the whole government will be following you, and you will get a fate worse than death. I promise that."

She hadn't stopped smiling. That was the truly frightening part. She almost looked pleased that she'd been able to disturb John so much. "You're certainly very sure of yourself."

"I usually am when I'm right." He stared directly into her eyes.

"Then you've clearly not been paying attention to what I'm saying." Her smile was still unbroken. "Sherlock has though, right dearest?" Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened so much he was sure he'd have a bruise. "He remembers it all, I'm sure."

"Were you trying to break his arm?" Sherlock's voice was so quiet as he said that it was hard to tell he had spoken at all.

"I wasn't trying to do anything. He'd been begging for it before, just like you used to, and he suddenly changed his mind. I took hold of his arm so he wouldn't try to leave and he pulled away. I pulled him back and..." She made a vague gesture with her hand, like it was something that couldn't be helped. "He heard it snap and he went right off to the clinic. He knew that place very well." That sinister smile remained on her face. "His mother was always asking if he was behaving himself, just like yours. Of course he was. He's a sad little boy but he's usually a good boy."

John told himself that the police might come at any time, and he had to keep her talking. He was fairly certain that K didn't know Sherlock's job and had no idea she was in any danger. "You met him when he was four years old. Four. Years. Old. That's still toddler age, when he was probably taking naps to make it past supper every evening. Was Phillip 'good' before then because he never struggled?" He was still looking in her eyes, and disturbingly she made no effort to break the line of contact. In fact, she seemed almost proud of how disturbed John was.

"You think they struggle, do you? I suppose that's what it's like when you and my little Sherlock are together, but I assure you I never have to make someone do anything. Believe me, he wanted to do that. He'd beg and say 'please.' No force. The older he was the more he wanted to do. And he was still so much like he was back then. So many of them become hairy and lumpy instead of soft and smooth." She broke eye contact with him to stare at Sherlock again, who looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. "He didn't just want to sit in my lap and tell me he loved me. Not by then. Do you know how tall he was when he was twelve years old? Look at me, I'm even shorter than you are. Do you really think I could force him to do anything?"

"Yes I do," John sharply replied. "Very much so."

"You're a fool, then."

"John is not a fool." Both John and K turned to look at Sherlock, and John was amazed he was speaking at all. There was a slight edge to his words that had been absent before.

K opened her mouth and looked like she was about to reply when there was a sound of wheels on gravel. John turned to see a police car in the driveway. He walked towards it before any officer had even gotten out, dragging Sherlock with him. "Did Lestrade from Scotland Yard ring you?" he said to the women who had just gotten out of the car.

"Yes he did. You must be John Watson," said one of them. "Is Dr. Martin in here?" She sounded very businesslike.

"She's right in the house," he responded.

"That makes our job a lot easier," said the other officer. The two of them headed down the walkway themselves, and even from that distance K looked genuinely surprised. The first officer said with no buildup, "Dr. Martin, I'm arresting you for fraud by obtaining lodgings and bank accounts with fraudulent identification. You do not have to say anything..."

Before he could hear the rest, Sherlock spoke again. "Take me home," he whispered. He looked like he was about to fall over.

"We'll go down to the station now," he reassured him. "Do you think you can walk that far?" John had a horrible thought that Sherlock resembled a soldier after a violent battle. Sherlock nodded but after a step or two fell towards the ground. Fortunately John grabbed him before he hit the ground. "Put your arm around my shoulder," he told him. He was careful to keep Sherlock on the side of the uninjured shoulder. "We're not far away."

They slowly hobbled towards the station at about half the speed they had taken to get there. Since it was still midday very few people were waiting on the platform. John didn't care who saw him but Sherlock carried the look of the utterly humiliated. Their timing was right, however, and in five minutes the train back to London showed up. John sat them both down in the farthest edge of the car and let Sherlock have the window seat. He didn't seem to be looking at anything, though, and just stared sightlessly into the distance.

After two of the longest hours of his life, they arrived back in London and John directed them both to a cab for home. The distance wasn't that big and normally he would have just walked it, but he didn't think Sherlock was capable of walking that far. In fact, when they arrived at Baker Street he seemed unable to even take the few steps inside. John offered his shoulder again and they limped back to their home, together. Once they were in the door he guided Sherlock to the couch. "Sit down and catch your breath," he said. "After that we need to talk." Maybe talking wasn't the best thing to do right now, psychologically, but John knew very well if they didn't start talking about it now, the gate would go down again.

"All right," said Sherlock in a tiny voice, like the child K still wanted him to be.


	18. Chapter 18

John made tea. He knew very well that tea wasn't going to fix anything, but they both needed its comfort. It also gave him time to collect himself. Just like Sherlock had known that venting his rage around Phillip would be a very bad idea, he knew that blowing up at K around Sherlock would be counterproductive. So as he waited for the water to boil he took deliberate deep breaths and counted slowly to himself. It worked, somewhat, and he brought the two cups of tea and a sugar bowl into the next room. He put all of them down on the table in front of the couch. "I know you like to add sugar yourself," he said as he sat down next to Sherlock and was rewarded with a small smile. It vanished just as quickly as it was there, but it was enough.

Although John knew it was important for them to talk, and to talk now, he was not sure where to begin. He knew Sherlock told some things to Phillip before, but otherwise had not spoken about the bee incident (he still couldn't call it anything more horrible in his head, even now) to anyone. Finally he decided to start with a more neutral question. "When K mentioned a friend of yours she had known, who was she talking about?" John thought it was good he was sitting beside him and not in front of him; it seemed far less confrontational.

"Someone I knew from school," Sherlock said in response.

"Can you tell me about him?" That sounded non-threatening enough.

"His name was Victor Trevor. He started at my secondary school when I was thirteen." Sherlock turned his head to the side and looked like he had suddenly become very interested in a spot on the other arm of the couch. "Everyone liked him. He was good at academics and football, and he was friendly to everyone."

"Including you?" John dared to ask. If Sherlock had been half as abrasive back then as he could be now, he couldn't really imagine anyone trying to be friendly with him.

"Including me. He lived on the end of the street I lived on and would walk home from school with me. I made a number of comments to indicate I was not interested in his company, but he said that I was always alone and he didn't think anybody would enjoy that. Eventually he brought up subjects of interest to me and I began to talk to him on those walks home. He would also sit with me during lunch hours and invited me to his home on several occasions. His mother and father were both academics; he used that information to convince me I would enjoy spending time at his home. He also had a bull terrier, and as you may recall I wanted a dog myself as a child but was not allowed to have one." He stopped staring at the spot and stared into his lap instead.

"How did K know him?" John wondered if that was too direct a question. He felt like he was trying to make a conversation out of cobwebs without breaking any of them.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a few minutes, and John thought he wasn't going to answer, but before John could ask another question he began to speak. "We stopped in the grocery store after school. He wished to buy some snack food. She was there in the aisle with the sweets." Another long silence. "She greeted me and asked if I was busy after school. I usually... often... I would meet Her at Her work and go home with Her once the day was over. Victor said that I was coming home with him and She would have to talk to me later." John clearly heard the capital letters in She and Her. He wanted to take his hand or put an arm around his shoulder but he wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate the contact. "She left, he bought what he wanted and we went to his home. His parents were not there. We sat down on the front steps and he asked me who that was and how I knew Her. I told him She was a friend of mine. He asked how long I had known Her, and I told him. He asked more questions and from something I said he was apparently able to deduce the... nature of our relationship. He asked me how long I had been... intimate with Her. I told him that as well. He didn't say anything for a long period of time and finally he told me that he thought I should talk to my mother about it."

"Did you?" John made himself ask.

"No. I began to avoid his company and started spending more nights at Her house. I had done that for years, but at that point I did it so much I rarely spent time at home. One day, when I was coming home from Her house my mother was waiting for me at the door. Victor had spoke to her the previous evening. She was mad at me for 'telling horrible lies' about someone who cared about me so much."

"And after that you were sent away to school?"

"Yes." He moved his gaze from his lap to his feet. "We did not see each other again." After a few minutes of silence John was ready to ask another question, but before he could do so Sherlock spoke. "She was right, you know."

"About what?" John asked doubtfully.

"Everything."

"That's not true," John forcefully replied, out of instinct more than anything else.

"Do you want to know how I met Her?" Sherlock continued like he hadn't heard John say anything. John nodded before he remembered they weren't facing each other. Sherlock must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because he began talking again. "Mycroft had gone away to school. I was all alone in the house so I took my bee and went outside hoping to find someone to play with. She lived a few doors down and was tending Her garden. She asked me what I was doing out here alone and I said I was looking for someone to play with. She saw my bee and asked me if I wanted to see Her garden. There were flowers, some vegetables, blueberry bushes and an apple tree. I went with Her to the apple tree. She said that it was just right for climbing, and did I want to try that. I said yes and She picked me up and put me in the lower branches of the tree."

After a minute or so of uncomfortable silence, John made himself say, "Go on."

"I climbed up in the tree for some time. When I wanted to get down I put my arms out and She picked me up and put me on the ground." He'd sounded flat before, but a hint of sadness had crept in. "Then She... put Her hand... down the front of my trousers. She rubbed and asked how it felt. I said it felt good. She asked me if I wanted Her to stop and I said no." That admission was apparently too much for Sherlock; he pulled himself away from John and curled up at the other end of the couch.

John remembered Sherlock's fury from when he had first talked to Phillip and how he had held back that rage until he was out of Phillip's sight. He mentally counted to ten before he began to reply. "Sherlock. You were four years old. Even if you told her to do that and demanded it, she's the one who knew it was wrong."

"I did beg though. She was right." He curled in on himself further, into an almost fetal position. "I'd go there and ask Her to fuck me."

"You wanted a friend," John said gently. "You wanted someone to love you. You wanted physical affection. That's normal."

"I liked it." It was a statement of fact.

John bit back his thought of _If you really liked it so much, then why were you scared speechless at the sight of this woman?_ and responded with, "Why do you think that?"

"Because I did."

"If you did, you wouldn't be so afraid right now." He wishes he could look Sherlock in the eye now, but he's still curled up on himself. A thought occurred to him. "Are you saying you were able to orgasm?" No response. "Because that has nothing to do with whether you enjoyed it or not. It's a reaction to physical stimulus." It was strangely terrifying that Sherlock Holmes, who prided himself on his rational thinking, was suddenly such an emotional reasoner. Of course it was because of K and whatever mind games she had played with him, as well as the fact he'd never talked about it before, but that didn't make it any less frightening.

"I dreamed about Her," he said in the same flat tone. "I thought about Her when I..." He didn't need to finish the sentence; from the context John found it easy to conclude what "I dreamed about Her" meant as well.

"That means you were a teenage male," John replied. He hoped Sherlock would laugh, or even unfold himself, or something that indicated what he was saying was getting through. "She's still the adult, though."

"When I was sent away to school I wished She would take me back."

"You wanted someone who you cared about. Understandable."

"I started the drugs because I knew I was too old and there wasn't a way to make Her take me back." The self-disgust in his voice was clearly evident. "I'd have made myself younger to live with Her forever if I could have."

John only gave himself a moment to register what Sherlock said before blurting out, "I'm sorry."

This, of all things, was enough to make Sherlock uncurl himself and turn towards John. He looked like he had just been struck. "Why?" he whispered.

A thousand responses stuck in John's throat, among them, "That you were hurt so badly," "That you're in so much pain," "That you were so desperate for love," and "Because I care about you." He finally said: "Drink your tea."

Sherlock reached out one shaking hand and reached for the sugar spoon. He placed sugar in the mug (some of it winding up on the floor and table) and brought the mug up for a sip. Without thinking, John reached out his hand and was about to put it on Sherlock's shoulder, but he suddenly flinched and John withdrew. "I'm not going to hate you for anything you tell me," John said.

"You can't say that now," Sherlock replied.

John thought suddenly of the "helper" comment K had made and felt a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Well, I am. Finish your tea." Sherlock put both of his shaking hands on the mug and drank the rest of it in one long gulp. He was still looking at John and wasn't curled up on himself again, and at that moment it became all too much for John to handle. "Give me ten minutes to go upstairs. I'll be back after that and we'll talk some more," he made himself say. Sherlock nodded silently, his eyes suddenly very large. That was enough to propel John up the steps and into his room, where he shut the door and finally allowed himself to cry.


	19. Chapter 19

True to his word, John was back in ten minutes, after eight minutes of crying, one of punching a pillow, and one of quickly washing his face off before he went back downstairs. Sherlock was still sitting on the couch; while he wasn't looking at anything, he hadn't curled up on himself again. He did look up when John came into the room. If he was able to deduce John had been crying he didn't say anything about it. For a variety of reasons, John was quite good at crying silently, but one could never remove all the traces of it.

"That's what you meant, when you said that people always assume," John said as he sat down again. "At the time I knew nothing about K, didn't even have an initial, and I still must have called her a he." He couldn't make himself call her "Dr. Martin," didn't want to give her the respect of the title, and calling her by first name was little better, so he stuck with the initial.

"Correct," Sherlock quietly responded.

"When did you know that K was the same person as the one you knew before?" He was sure that Sherlock had figured it out some time before, but had never said so.

"I first suspected when I talked to Phillip for the first time. Then he rang me that night." Sherlock turned his head to the side, away from John, and stared off into the distance. "He tried his best to conceal anything that might give away Her identity, but he slipped and called Her 'She' on one occasion. That was when I knew." Another pause. "Of course even then I had no concrete evidence it was indeed Her. But I knew and just had to confirm it. Everything I later found would point towards Her."

"Her house isn't where you grew up," John said, more to keep the conversation going than anything else.

"Of course not. She moves frequently because She is independently wealthy, as I said before."

"Even if it hadn't been the same person, you still would have been able to figure that out," John continued.

"Yes, of course. Every fact I saw led me closer to the conclusion that She was K, but I investigated it as if I knew nothing about K in the first place." He briefly turned to look at John, looking proud for a moment. "However, even if She was not wealthy, She would still frequently move because of the children."

"The children?" John echoed. He had a feeling this was about more than the children K had abused, but wasn't sure what it was.

"She's a pediatrician," Sherlock clarified, like this was an obvious thing.

"What?" John replied stupidly.

"Phillip met Her at work, remember? She has always used Her work to pick out Her choice of little ones. Since She has money of her own, She can move any time She thinks that She may be close to detection. The actual threat of detection is low of course, thanks to Her gender." Sherlock sounded more like himself now, with the exception of a tremor in his voice every time he referred to K. "But She is careful and moves periodically anyway."

"And you helped her at work," John said slowly. He had suspected what that meant almost since K had said it, but Sherlock apparently hadn't known he had known that. He sprang up from the couch with a look of horror on his face and if John hadn't stood up himself and grabbed his arm he would have probably bolted to his room. "If you didn't, what would happen?" John asked in a neutral tone. K might have told Sherlock otherwise, but he knew perfectly well that the only reason Sherlock would have done such a thing would be under duress. "Because threats are just as much as force as holding a gun to your head," he continued. Sherlock was as still as a deer in headlights, frozen in his attempt to flee. "No matter what she told you, you're not going to be arrested for it. You told Phillip the same thing, remember?" He made his voice as soft as possible, as if he was trying to calm a frightened animal.

"Different things," Sherlock finally whispered in reply. He was looking at John but it was clear he was not actually seeing him.

"How old were you then?"

"She stopped letting me go with Her to Her office when I started secondary school. She said She didn't need my help anymore," he replied in a childlike tone.

"Can you tell me one of the things that would happen if you didn't?" John wondered if there was something more fragile than cobwebs; if their previous talk had been spun from those, this seemed to be something more careful still. He steered them both back to the couch. After he sat down, Sherlock blankly followed suit.

"She would send the pictures to Mycroft." From the brief look of surprise that crossed Sherlock's face, John guessed that wasn't what he had intended to say. Fortunately, he didn't try to run away again.

"Pictures of you and her? Engaged in sexual activity?" John silently cursed himself for phrasing it in such an awkward way, but there was no taking it back. Sherlock appeared to not notice that and moved his head in the smallest nod John had ever seen. "What did you think would happen if she did send them to him?"

"Don't know," he muttered in response.

John thought privately this was unlikely, but decided not to push the issue. "What else did she say?"

"That She - nothing important." He had clearly caught himself mid-sentence in something he didn't want to reveal.

At this point John figured it would be easier on all of them to change the subject. "When was the last time you slept?" It wasn't that he didn't want to encourage Sherlock to talk about K, because he wanted him to.

The question seemed to snap Sherlock back into a sense of reality. "Some time ago," he said in what was almost close to a normal tone of voice.

"You should get some sleep. You need to sleep. This isn't going to be over in a few days, anyway," John pointed out.

"It would - I dislike sleep." He looked dazed again.

"I know. You told Phillip that." While this probably wasn't the best time to bring up the fact he'd overheard the conversation, it was better than silence.

"You were awake when I talked to him." It was a statement of fact.

"Yes, I was. But you were talking right outside my door." That wasn't really much of a defense, but it was the truth.

"I happened to be pacing up the stairs at the time." Sherlock didn't sound angry. "Conducting that conversation outside your door was pure happenstance."

"Well, all right, but you still need to sleep," John persisted. "If you really, truly cannot sleep, I'll give you some sort of sedative, but you need to at least try."

"Perhaps you're right." Sherlock looked back at him.

"Do you think you can at least make it up the stairs?" John asked.

"Maybe," he replied.

"I'll come up with you." Just like before, he offered his good shoulder and Sherlock draped an arm over it. As they both made for the stairs, John unfortunately spoke before he thought about what he was going to say. "What was in all those bags of garbage you've gotten rid of over the past few days?" He wasn't sure why he said it; he'd wondered about it for a while but knew better than to think he'd ever find out. The effect was immediate. Sherlock froze in place and if he didn't have an arm around John's shoulder he probably would have fallen. "No, forget I said that," John quickly added, and that was enough to get them moving again. They both walked up the stairs and into Sherlock's room. Sherlock didn't let go of his shoulder until they stood next to his bed. Only then did he allow himself to fall limply on to the sheets. "Do you want me to get you anything?" John said anxiously. "I'm not going to try any drugs until you've at least tried to sleep, but if there's anything else you want?"

"Radio," Sherlock replied softly. John managed to locate and turn on the digital radio, and some classical station began to play.

"Is it too loud?"

"It's fine," Sherlock said as he turned over on his side. John took this as the cue to leave the room, but as he was in the doorway he heard one word, quiet as a whisper. "Bedsheets." He was halfway down the stairs when he realized that Sherlock had just answered his question. In a second he realized what that meant and suddenly fought the urge to be sick.

At that point, before he could do any more than process that information, his mobile rang. He was almost glad for the distraction as he answered it. "John," Lestrade said, businesslike. "I was going to ring Sherlock but I figured you might be a little more rational about all this."

"K's at the Yard?" he made himself ask.

"If K's Kelly Gene Martin, then yes, she's here. I've made some more calls and Mr. Aherne and Moira will be coming down to the Yard tomorrow for a line-up. The Rodgers boy will also have to pick her out. Without an ID all we've got is the fraud charges. If this is the right person, then we're going to search the house and the flat you and Sherlock found, amongst other things." Even he sounded surprised, even though he had worked with law enforcement for so long and had clearly seen many horrible crimes. It was quickly becoming more and more accurate that, as Sherlock said, "people always assume."

"Do you want us down there then?" John forced himself to only think about this as a case right now, and not as a personal attack on someone he cared about. At some point he was going to allow himself to get good and angry, but that could wait.

"That would be good of you, especially since Sherlock's got a rapport with Moira no one else has. It might make the whole thing less stressful for her."

"Has she said anything yet?" John dared to ask.

"She requested a solicitor. That's it. She seems quite well off. I hope this really is this K, because if she isn't this will get very bad very quickly." Lestrade sounded doubtful.

"She's the one," John said right away. "She might have not said anything to the police, but she and Sherlock exchanged words."

Lestrade must have picked up on something in his voice, because he said: "That bad, was it?"

"Just about the worst you can imagine," John told him. "I'm glad the police showed up before I was forced to strangle her."

He could hear Lestrade's breath catch. "Where is Sherlock now, anyway?"

"Asleep. At least I hope he's asleep."

"He's sleeping on a case?"

"I told him to get some sleep and if he couldn't fall asleep on his own I'd give him some sedative. He had a rough time. K said he -" John managed to cut himself off before he revealed too much.

"I see." It sounded like Lestrade had already figured it out, or at least suspected it, because there was no surprise in his voice. "Well, once I find out when the Ahernes can get down here tomorrow, I'll ring or text one of you with a time."

"That'd be good, thanks. I should get going. I want to see if he's fallen asleep yet." John knew perfectly well that that was a pathetic excuse to end the conversation, but couldn't think of a better one.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Goodbye." As soon as Lestrade disconnected he shut off his mobile and went up the stairs as quietly as he could. He poked his head in Sherlock's room and to his relief Sherlock looked to be asleep, curled up in a ball on his side while the music still played.

He decided that a walk would do him some good and get rid of some of the pent-up anger, so he headed outside and roamed the streets for an hour or so. It didn't help. He still came back home feeling like he wanted to punch someone. A particular someone, of course. The urge was strong enough that John had to remind himself that he was supposed to be the well-behaved one and not the one that shot up the walls. Anyway, it might wake up Sherlock. While he didn't go upstairs again to check on him, he assumed that since Sherlock didn't come back downstairs he was either asleep or otherwise occupied. He didn't think he could do anything about the horrible anger inside him, and as a result he spent several hours that night staring at the bedroom ceiling, trying to blot out the past twenty-four hours.

Of course, it didn't work.


	20. Chapter 20

John must have fallen asleep eventually, because when he opened his eyes the sun was up and had clearly been so for some time. He almost didn't want to go downstairs. Yesterday had been so dramatic that they would both be feeling the effects of it. And of course today Moira was going to have to identify K from a lineup. He knew that he couldn't avoid any of this, so he showered, got dressed, and headed downstairs.

He wasn't sure what he'd see when he got there. Unless he was still sequestered in his room, Sherlock would be there, but he had no idea what state he would be in. When he reached the bottom of the steps he carefully looked out and saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, wearing the same clothes he had worn yesterday, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't turn at the sound of footsteps, which was unnerving enough in itself. In fact, he didn't appear to notice John at all when he walked in front of him. It was only when he cleared his throat that Sherlock looked up. "Lestrade rang when you were asleep yesterday. He said that he was going to try to get the Ahernes down to the station for a lineup. He'll tell us when he gets a time."

"I spoke with him before you came down. He says we should come down around two." Sherlock didn't look like he had slept at all. His eyes were bloodshot with dark circles under them. In some ways it looked like he had aged overnight, but the rumpled clothes and the blanket made him look oddly childlike. For lack of a better word, he looked despairing. John wondered if he had made things better or worse with his questions the day before.

"If what I asked you yesterday was too intrusive, I apologize. I just thought you might feel better if you talked to someone." That sounded neutral enough.

Sherlock broke eye contact with him. "It's fine," he said hollowly.

"Just one thing. You said you started using drugs because of K not being interested in you anymore. I can't stop you from doing that again, but if you do get the urge to do so I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me about it." John wasn't speaking before thinking this time; he'd spent quite a bit of last night worrying about that. Even now the thought that K had broken someone this badly - chewed up, spat out, and left to die - brought on a horrible feeling of dread.

"Don't be concerned."

"I'm your friend. I have a right to be concerned," John said evenly.

"Colleague," Sherlock spat out in a sudden burst of anger.

"That too," he responded, deliberately not taking the bait. "Have you eaten something?"

"Not today." Just like that, all the anger seemed to have drained out of him.

"I want you to eat something before we go down to the Yard." While under ordinary circumstances, John knew Sherlock would have scorned such specific direction, but the encounter with K had taken all the energy out of him. In fact, he seemed strangely relieved that someone was taking up those roles. "I'm going to make breakfast," he added as he left the room. Once he was in the kitchen he busied himself with making bacon and eggs. He usually didn't eat such a elaborate breakfast, but it seemed more energizing than cereal or toast.

After John was done with the cooking, he divided up the food into two equal portions and carried it back to the sitting room. Sherlock was still sitting there wrapped in the blanket, motionless. He looked down as John set a plate down in front of him and after a few seconds of staring he picked up the fork and slowly brought a piece of egg to his mouth. John smiled encouragingly at him, sat down next to him, and started to eat.

Even though John finished his food quickly, he didn't go back to the kitchen or up to his room. The state Sherlock was in was bad enough that he didn't want to leave him alone for more than a few seconds. At least he was eating, slowly. John doubted he'd finish more than half the food, but it was something. For lack of anything else to do, he turned on the BBC news and watched it for an hour as Sherlock picked his way through the food. Not surprisingly, only about half of it was gone when he picked up his plate and carried it back to the kitchen. That in itself was odd enough, but when he came right back into the room, sat back down, and stared blankly at the television screen it served to further remind John of the tension still present.

The whole scene would have gone on for an uncomfortably long time if Sherlock's mobile hadn't rung shrilly a half hour later. "What is it?" he said in an almost normal voice. "Do you want us to leave now? Good, I don't want you to ruin the whole thing before Moira's had a chance to pick someone out. We'll be there as soon as we can." He disconnected the phone, smiling broadly, like he had been brought back to life. "That was Lestrade. He wants us at the Yard as soon as possible so we can go over everything he's been able to find about K." He threw the blanket off like a discarded cocoon and reached for his coat. John was glad to see him acting in a more normal fashion, and was also relieved that he had spoken of K and not Her with the ominous capitals.

In half an hour they were walking into the Yard and to Lestrade's office, like they had done a million times before. Lestrade himself was standing in the doorway waiting for them. "Come in. The Ahernes will be here in an half an hour and I'm not sure how long this will take." He looked grave as he led them in and motioned for them to sit down. Sherlock unusually did so, and John was reminded that he couldn't have completely recovered in a matter of minutes. If Lestrade thought this was odd he gave no sign of it. "This is all I could get about our subject you brought us." He sat down behind the desk and gestured to a small manilla folder. "Doctor Kelly Gene Martin. Fifty-two years old. She's been practicing pediatrics for thirty years. Not a single complaint from a parent in that time, no reprimands from any workplace, not even a single traffic ticket. Her school record is unblemished and she apparently skipped a few grades. She was married for almost a year to a university classmate, nineteen years ago. He was killed in an accident; apparently he fell on the third rail in the Underground. She was out of the country at the time. They had applied for a foster care license a few months after they were married, but it wasn't approved until after his death." He paused as if to give them time to digest that piece of information. "She's done emergency foster care on and off since then, and has never had a child with her for longer than a year. The last time she cared for any children was around four years ago; she told the agency she needed a break and since she had been so consistent in taking hard to place children they were more than happy to allow her time. There's never been any complaints there or any write-ups. So far we have been unable to find any of the children she has fostered. In short, without any sort of testimony from any victim, especially Moira and Phillip, there's no case to be built. A jury'd take one look at her, see a nice older woman who's devoted her life to helping others, and she'd walk free."

"The fraud charges?" John asked, mostly to himself.

He shook his head. "She's wealthy; when her parents died while she was in university she inherited all their money. Her husband was also wealthy and even though she only inherited a portion of his money on his death that was still a significant amount. She can easily hire a solicitor who could get those charges reduced to a slap on the wrist." Whatever Lestrade was going to say next was cut off by the phone on the desk ringing shrilly. He picked up the phone. "Hello? Oh, good. We'll set up and meet you in the other room. You know where it is? Good, I'll see all of you then." After setting the receiver back down he turned to face John and Sherlock. "That was Mr. Aherne. He's leaving now. I have to get the lineup sorted. Do you know where the room is?"

"The one with the one-way mirror?" Sherlock said. "Yes, we can get there without any trouble." He was clearly trying to sound confident, but there was a distinct undercurrent of anxiety. John decided it was best to take the lead here and got up to leave first.

Both of them had only been in this particular room a few times, and none of them had involved a suspect lineup. In fact, they had all been rather mundane meetings to discuss evidence or question the odd witness. John could hear shuffling and mumbled voices behind the one-way mirror, but there was currently no light to see by. Sherlock had sat down in a chair that was both as far away as possible from the mirror and facing in the other direction. "I want to talk to Moira and Mr. Aherne as soon as they get in," was his explanation when John shot him a questioning glance. While that was probably true in and of itself, John knew it wasn't the real reason. He also was aware that Sherlock knew he knew that, and it was an attempt to save face. So he just nodded in understanding.

Mr. Aherne arrived twenty minutes later with all three of his children in tow. John was reminded of his comment that he'd sleep with a knife in his hands before letting K get at his daughter again. He must have looked surprised, because Mr. Aherne said, "I'm not leaving them with anyone else again. Not for a long time," as he came through the doorway. Moira was right behind him, clutching her bear. Her whole face lit up when she saw Sherlock, and she came to stand right next to his chair.

"Hi," she said cheerfully. "Me dad moved my bed to his room. I sleep there now. He lets Rory sleep on my bed too."

"That's good," Sherlock responded. He got up out of the chair. "Do you know why you had to come down here today?"

Her expression sobered. "I need to help the police. Because of K."

"That's right," Sherlock told her. He turned to face the one-way mirror. "See that mirror over there? It's different from most mirrors because you can see through it to the other side but the people on the other side can't see you. Now, the police have found someone they think might be K." Moira's eyes widened, whether from fear or shock John couldn't tell. "Your job is to look at the people behind the mirror and tell us if K is there. If K is there, you point to K. If K isn't there, you tell us that K isn't there. Do you think you can do that?" He looked at her expectantly.

"Can me dad stay with me?" she said cautiously. By this time her brother and sister were also in the room, and they sat at one of the deserted tables, took out what appeared to be a book of puzzles, and started doing one together.

"Of course he can," Sherlock softly replied.

At that moment Lestrade came into the room. "Mr. Aherne, it's good to see you again. Wish it was under better circumstances but..." He shrugged. "In about a minute the lights will come on and Moira will be able to see the people behind the mirror."

Both Mr. Aherne and Moira walked up to the mirror. Shortly after they did that, the lights came on. Six people, three men and three women, were in line. They were all similar, short and with black hair. Dr. Martin was second to the right. John sneaked a glance at Mr. Aherne's face and saw no recognition or shock there. Clearly he had never met Dr. Martin before. Moira looked at the line for a second, eyes wide, and took a step back, squeezing the bear in her arms tighter. She was still for thirty seconds or so, like she was making sure that no one in the line could see her. When she appeared convinced that she was truly not able to be seen, she slowly shifted her bear to one arm, raised the other arm and pointed to the person second to the right.

"That one?" Lestrade said. He didn't sound surprised. She nodded firmly in response. "All right. Thank you Moira." She moved away from the mirror to stand by her brother and sister, but Mr. Aherne gazed coldly at K. He seemed unable to tear himself from the spot. Outwardly his expression had changed little, but there was a quiet fury in the way he held himself. If K had not been behind a mirror it was very clear she would not have been safe.

How long this would have gone on John didn't know, because after a minute Moira's brother Kieran came over to where his father stood. He looked furious. "So she's the one who hurt my sister?" He pointed at K just as the lights went out.

"Your sister said that was the one," Lestrade said carefully.

His hands formed fists. "They better keep her in jail for a long time. Or I'll..."

"Kieran," his father gently responded. Kieran unclenched his fists and it seemed like he had lost some of his anger. "Come on. I think after this we all deserve some ice creams." He took his son's hand and led him away from the mirror and out of the room. Before Mr. Aherne could get all the way across the room to his daughters, Sherlock walked to his side. He had stood far away from the mirror the whole time, and although he had been looking in that direction his eyes had been fixed on the floor.

"You're not surprised," he said. "Did you suspect?"

Mr. Aherne fortunately understood what Sherlock was asking without the need for elaboration. "That it was a woman? I hadn't ruled it out. I was in care as a child, you know, and back then that sort of thing wasn't a reason other children came in very often. But they talked. Not always to the carers, but to other children. Mums, dads, sometimes both. It made me think I was lucky. Nora told me the same thing, and she heard stories like that too." He nodded at Sherlock and stepped up to his daughters. "Let's go get those ice creams now." Moira removed a hand from her bear and took her father's other hand. The four of them walked out into the hall, forming a small, touching moment of a family cracked, but ready to take steps to heal.

"She's brave," John commented as the Ahernes stepped out of sight. "Being able to confront her abuser like that." He pointedly did not look at Sherlock as he said it, although he was under no illusion that Sherlock had missed his meaning.

"It's good she's got a supportive family," Lestrade responded. "It will be less hard for her." He swallowed. "Sherlock, I know you have Phillip's number, or at least he has yours, and if he doesn't try to reach you in the next twenty-four hours I'd like you to get a hold of him. He likes you and he'll need to pick out someone from the lineup too." Discomfort was evident on his face, and John imagined that he was thinking of his own children.

"That will be fine," Sherlock curtly replied. "He typically rings me at night and I suspect he will be doing the same. I hope you're going to find some of those foster children She has taken care of before."

"Of course. With Moira's identification we can get a warrant to search the house and as many records as we can find. Lots of paperwork, not the sort of thing you'd be interested in." Lestrade still looked uneasy.

"No, I don't suppose it would be. Let's go back home, John." Sherlock spun on his heels and headed for the door. John followed him. He thought about taking his hand like he had done when they first met K, but did not. Sherlock didn't look like he wanted to be touched.


	21. Chapter 21

Neither of them spoke on the way home, and John wondered what he might be able to do to keep Sherlock from barricading himself in his room. He certainly wouldn't want to talk anymore. He had let his guard down after the first encounter with K, but John could tell the shields had gone back up again; if he asked now Sherlock would most likely deny he had feelings at all. But John knew that wasn't true. And if he thought about it, he was really all Sherlock had. Moira had her father and siblings. As Sherlock had said before, he didn't have friends, just the one. Even worse, Phillip was depending on Sherlock. If he wasn't strong for the both of them, they'd all collapse like dominoes. Still, what was he supposed to do? He was certain if this had been a patient he would have referred him to a therapist. Of course, Sherlock wouldn't see a therapist in the first place. Until yesterday he hadn't told anyone about what had gone on except that friend he had before. If someone forced him to see a therapist, he'd either sit silently or be as obnoxious with his deductions as possible so he could get out of any further sessions.

When the cab finally stopped in front of Baker Street, he got out and was striding towards the door when he realized that Sherlock was just standing there on the curb, a blank expression on his face. "Sherlock?" John said gently as he came to stand in front of him. "Are you all right?" It sounded stupid even in his head, but he couldn't say nothing.

"Fine," Sherlock tightly replied. He still looked half-blank.

"You need to come inside," John said.

"I will."

John wasn't sure if he'd actually move or not, and was relieved when Sherlock walked towards the door. He was careful to stay behind him all the way upstairs, close enough to be ready to help him move but not so close he was crowding him. As soon as he was through the door Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, not even bothering to take his coat off. He didn't shift himself in any way, just stared up at the ceiling. It occurred to John that he had to go to work tomorrow. He didn't want to miss another day, but at the same time he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone. For one, he knew there were drugs in the flat somewhere. He didn't know precisely where they were, or what type they were, but he knew they were there. Sherlock hadn't promised him that he would tell John if he got the urge to take anything, and while he very well might do so, John wasn't going to count on it.

"Please don't shut me out," he said, thinking out loud.

"I'm not trying to." Sherlock didn't break his blank stare at the ceiling.

"You're doing it though. I know you're in a lot of pain. I just want to help."

It was like he had flipped a switch. In a second Sherlock went from blank to furious. He thrust himself off the couch and in two long strides he was standing in front of John, looking down at him menacingly. "You know nothing about any of this! Nothing! Don't you dare to say 'I know you're in pain!' because you can't even understand part of it!"

On one hand, John was glad that Sherlock actually seemed to be showing some emotion, but he wished he wasn't the target. "You're right, maybe I don't understand even part of it. It's still very clear you're in pain, though. Even if I can't understand that pain I can still be concerned for you."

"Concerned over what? It's not any of your business!" There was a pinkish tinge to Sherlock's face, the most color John had ever seen in it.

"Yes, it is," John calmly replied. "I'm your friend. When you're in pain, I'm in pain."

"I'd pick Her over you!" Sherlock all but spat out in his fury.

"Why?" John was bewildered. It certainly hadn't been the reply he was expecting.

"Because at least then I'd know what it's like!"

John had heard people talk before about silence falling over a room, but until that point he'd never actually seen it happen. As soon as Sherlock apparently realized what he had said, he took two steps back, his eyes widening as he did so. He was probably attempting to flee to his room, but as he turned for the stairs he tripped on the lowest step and fell like a bundle of sticks. Instead of getting up, he curled into a remarkably compact ball. For a minute John stood there in stunned silence. Whatever else he said, Sherlock valued his company and liked having him around. And despite any sort of bravado he might put on, he was clearly frightened of K. It wasn't a barb designed to keep John away, either. Sherlock's response to hearing himself say it was not a calculated one. Then he remembered Molly saying a long time ago Sherlock seemed to want something he couldn't have, and the gears clicked. He crouched down next to Sherlock. John knew better than to touch him, and he couldn't catch his eye when he was curled up like that, so he threw caution to the wind and just said it. "You loved her. And you didn't love anyone else after that. Until you met me. And you love me." He knew "in love with me" was probably a better description, but right now was a time to carefully choose his words. "But you're afraid because you don't want to have sex with me, and it scares you. And no matter how bad it was with her, you know what it's like already, and that's better than any unknown." John wasn't really surprised by his feelings at all. Pretty much every single person who had met both him and Sherlock had noticed those feelings, and had all but hit him over the head with the fact Sherlock Holmes loved him. If he had to pick a reason why Sherlock never acted on those feelings, though, he wouldn't have come up with this one.

Sherlock didn't move. He didn't uncurl himself and he gave no indication that he'd heard a word John said. At this point John had no idea if he was doing the right thing or not. _Please make me know the right thing to say_, he thought. "You're not responsible for any of that, you know. She might have told you something like that, but that's not the case. Remember how upset you were when you realized Phillip felt that way?"

Since Sherlock was curled up on himself, and speaking in such a low voice, John almost didn't hear his response. "Different."

"Different how?" he retorted. "Both of you even met her at the same age. What makes Phillip different than you?"

His only response was to mumble something John couldn't make out. John suspected at this point that he couldn't offer a reason for them being different and it was simply a matter of emotional reasoning. That of course didn't make things better; in fact if there wasn't any logic that would convince Sherlock that they were not in fact different he had no idea how to go about doing so. "Think about how you would feel if Phillip said something like that. That's how I feel right now."

"I want to go to bed." John didn't register what Sherlock had said for a second, since it wasn't a response to his comment. He had to pay attention when his head emerged from the ball he had made of himself. At first John wondered if this was an escape tactic, as Sherlock usually went for so long without sleeping and he'd slept for so many hours yesterday, but when he saw the dark circles under his eyes John figured he was telling the truth.

"You want some help getting up there?" he asked. If it wasn't for the fact John had kept an eye on him for most of the day, he'd wonder if Sherlock hadn't taken something. He nodded and John offered his arm. While Sherlock managed to unfold himself easily enough, he seemed to have difficulty getting up and only by taking John's hand and John pulling was he able to stand upright. Just like the day before, the two of them slowly went up the steps and into his room. "Music?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head in response. He sat down on the bed and took off his coat. After that he just sat there and John figured that was his cue to leave. He went back downstairs for fifteen minutes or so, putting a few things away. Since he couldn't hear anything upstairs, he decided to at least check on him and to his surprise Sherlock was fast asleep and buried under a mound of covers.

Before all of this began, it would have been the sort of lazy Sunday he rarely got to have. Now, however, there was something sinister about it, and not just in the fact Sherlock was asleep upstairs and not working on one of his experiments or stealing his laptop or pacing around or sulking. Everything suddenly seemed tainted by K. John thought he'd been angry at K before, but then she had just been some unknown monster. Now she was the person who had broken his best friend. Someone who made you think all relationships caused pain and the best you could do was keep that pain familiar. He knew that there was nothing he could do at this point, so he spent most of the day doing small things that needed to be done and doing his own sulking to try to control his anger.

While he wasn't exactly thrilled when he woke up the next day and remembered he had to go to work, it was at least some sort of distraction. Sherlock was awake but was curled up on the sofa in what would have appeared to be a sulk if he had not been facing out and staring that blank stare again. He didn't respond when John said "Morning," and only moved when John put a cup of tea in front of him. He was slowly sipping from it as John headed out the door.

Any idea that this was going to be a normal day at work, or at least as normal as one of John's days ever got, was shattered when Sarah approached him before he even took his jacket off. She looked stunned, the sort of look you saw when some patient came in with a rare and quickly fatal disease. "That Yarder, Lestrade, he was here just before you got in," she informed him. "He was..." Whatever she was about to say bothered her so much she went silent.

John assumed this had something to do with collecting the records of K's victims. "I think I know what you're talking about," he said reassuringly.

"I never would have thought it. I knew Dr. Martin. A few weeks ago we stood right here chatting for a bit. Everyone always liked her. Never any complaints." She shook her head.

A vague memory of hearing about Dr. Martin from Sarah a few weeks ago came back to him. She had complained about Dr. Arthur but had said that Dr. Martin had been nice. Whether it was because he had forgotten or that he'd chose not to make the connection, he hadn't thought about that. "Why was Lestrade here?" he made himself ask.

"He wanted all of her records here. I only knew her for a little while; she left here five years ago, but she never..." Sarah shut her eyes for a second, like she was thinking of something. "Actually. Now that I think about it, it's not the case. You know she worked in the pediatric clinic here, usually in the evening. One thing she always insisted on was that she examine children without their parents in the room at the same time. She said it was because parents so often get hysterical over minor things."

"They do," John agreed. "But at the same time..."

"No one else seemed concerned by it," Sarah said firmly. "And I told myself it wasn't a big deal. But honestly? If Dr. Martin has been a male Kelly instead of a female one, I'd have talked to social services."

"You're not the only one to make that mistake. Everyone at the Yard seemed about to fall over in surprise when they found out our suspect wasn't a man." John looked away, biting back his "Everyone but Sherlock" response because it wasn't his place to tell Sarah about something like that.

"I shouldn't have," she told him. At that point she noticed that they were blocking a door and ducked into an unused office nearby, gesturing for John to join her. "We have time to talk; you're early anyway." John knew he had been early, almost an hour early, but he couldn't bear one more minute of Sherlock silently staring off into space with that blank look on his face. He followed her into the office. "She was always well liked, that's true," she continued after shutting the door. "And on some level I liked her. But at the same time I should have gone with my instincts."

John was suddenly seized by the desire to talk about anything but K for a change. "Well, there's no way you can change that now. What's been going on here for the past couple of days, anyway?" Thankfully, she got the message, and they spent the next hour in idle chitchat.

The rest of the day at work was... odd. On the one hand it did provide something of a distraction; for long stretches at a time John successfully banished K from his mind. On the other hand he was still worried about Sherlock. Every so often, when the feeling bubbled up to the surface, he would ring Mrs. Hudson on some pretense to get her to check on Sherlock upstairs. While he was pretty sure she was aware of what he was doing, she always accepted his excuses. She never had much to tell him, of course; she would report back and tell John that Sherlock was pacing around or curled up on the sofa. After several such reports, he started counting down the time he had left at work and it was a relief when he was finally able to head back home. That itself was a painful reminder of how much K had changed their lives.

When he was finally back and opening the front door he was surprised to see Phillip Rodgers standing in the hall. "Did you come to see us?" he asked.

Phillip nodded. "Your friend. The landlady let me in a few minutes ago." John couldn't help but notice the boy was ghostly pale.

"Well, come upstairs with me." Phillip obediently followed John up the steps and stood aside as he unlocked the door. From the door he could see Sherlock was on the sofa like before but was sitting normally instead of lying down. Phillip apparently saw him as well, as he pushed John aside to get into the flat. He was momentarily annoyed but this evaporated when Phillip sat down next to Sherlock and started to cry.


	22. Chapter 22

John had no idea what to do; he merely stood speechless in front of the two of them. Sherlock seemed to have some idea, however, and put a hand on Phillip's shoulder. "Were you at the Yard today?" he said gently. Phillip nodded. "And they had you look at a lineup?"

"I almost didn't. I was going to say that I didn't know anyone there. But at the last minute I pointed to Her." His voice was still thick with tears.

"That was the right thing to do," Sherlock said reassuringly. It seemed like he had cast off his earlier melancholy to deal with Phillip.

"Are you sure they're not going to arrest me?" He quickly glanced at Sherlock before looking down into his lap again.

"What do you think you might be arrested for?" John asked. Phillip glanced up at him as if he had only just noticed he was in the room.

"They arrested Her for doing things," he mumbled, and looked away. Like with Sherlock, John could hear the capital letter in the word "her".

"She is an adult. You are a child," Sherlock firmly replied. His hand hadn't left Phillip's shoulder.

"I did it too," he quietly mumbled. "And Her flat... sometimes She had other people there. Little kids."

"Did you want to do anything to them? Did you see them and think about how good it would be to have sex with them?" Sherlock was amazingly calm. John had felt his stomach muscles clench as soon as he'd realized what Phillip was talking about, but Sherlock was acting like he had conversations like this every day.

"No. But She said if I didn't She'd call the Yard on me. Tell them I'd been doing things with Her too." He turned to look at Sherlock again, and tears were in his eyes. "There was one time where She had this really little girl with her and I was supposed to..." He seemed to check whether both of them knew what he meant, and when Sherlock nodded in understanding, he went on. "She - the little girl - was crying the whole time. After it was done I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I wanted to find something to take so I could die but all there was was soap and shampoo."

"Threats are force. It's not holding a gun to your head, but it's force." Sherlock echoed John's words of the day before. "What was She doing then?"

"Touching Herself. And She took pictures."

"Had She taken pictures before?" John found it eerie that both of them were putting capital letters into the same words. But of course they both understood the need for them.

"Sometimes," Phillip whispered. "I shouldn't have given you that address," he continued a second later like that was a perfectly natural segue in conversation. "I was at Her flat that evening and She was sleeping. Usually She's holding me so tight I can't move but this time She'd let go with one arm."

"Go on," Sherlock said after a minute of silence.

"I thought about that little girl and I realized I didn't know if she was still getting hurt. So I looked in her handbag and there was no ID but there was a receipt from a store in there. I wrote down the address and then once She left me back at home I went right over to your place." He turned so he was once again looking Sherlock directly in the eye. "I figured that even if I got arrested I'd know that other girl was safe."

"What did this girl look like?" Sherlock asked.

"It was a while, but she was African, I think. She had dark skin and dark hair in braids." From Sherlock's brief glance towards John he knew that Sherlock was aware that could have been a description of Jennifer Ogbeide -Bena. "She was really little, though. Not even old enough for infants school yet. Someone that little should be safe."

"You weren't that much older when you met her," John broke in, not using the capital letter.

"Is it still a crime if you sort of enjoyed it?" For once, Phillip wasn't staring at his hands or the floor. In fact, he was looking John right in the eye.

"Yes, it is," John responded without hesitation.

"Is it still a crime if you enjoyed it enough that you..." He broke eye contact. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder.

"If you mean 'enjoyed it enough that you orgasmed' then, yes it still is. And for the record, it doesn't mean you enjoyed it, because it's just a physical response." John was eerily reminded of the conversation he'd had with Sherlock a few days ago.

"But what if you liked it enough that you were thinking of Her, well, when -"

John could see where this was going and cut him off before he finished the sentence. "If what you're talking about is masturbating, that still doesn't mean you enjoyed it. That's just all the experience you've had with sex and it carries over. She is the adult here. Not you. Even if you demanded something from her when you first met, she has the responsibility to refuse. Legally you cannot consent."

"What if it's when you're dreaming?" Sherlock visibly shuddered when Phillip asked that, even removing his hand from his shoulder.

"Then I would say it's even less possible you liked it. In fact, it happens when you're not dreaming anything at all." Although this was the last time to think of something like that, John chuckled at a memory. "When I was still in medical school I was doing a rotation in A&E one night. It was cold and raining so the place was deserted. At around two in the morning, a man and a teenage boy show up. The man says he's his father and they would like to be seen. I ask what the problem is and the man says there's no problem. 'Then what are you doing here?' I asked. The father turns to the boy and says 'Go on, tell him.' By this point I'm wondering what's going on, and notice the boy's not looking me in the eye. There's a few minutes of awkward silence and finally the boy says in a hardly audible voice, 'Something came out of my penis when I was sleeping.' The father then says: 'There! Go on, tell him it's normal!' I stare in disbelief at the father, wondering what kind of horrible parent you must be if you drag your kid to A&E because you can't bring yourself to explain wet dreams."

Phillip, who had been watching him throughout the whole story, laughed once or twice before looking at his hands again. "I did tell Her, though. I was the one that did all that and She said it was good that She loved me or She'd have the police on me. And if She was the one that I did all of that to it would mean I wouldn't hurt anyone else." A flush spread across his face. "Once She said I couldn't help it, I was born with it. At least when I grew up I'd be able to make people happy."

"Born with what?" John asked. He couldn't figure out what Phillip was trying to say.

"A, um. It was something bad."

"What he's trying to say is that She said he was a sexual psychopath." Both John and Phillip turned towards Sherlock. "And Phillip, you've already asked me these questions. Was there a reason you wanted to ask John as well?" Sherlock looked him in the eye.

"I wanted to see what he'd say," he replied.

"Because you were hoping he'd say no. That it wasn't a crime, at least not for Her, and that it was all your fault it happened." From the way Sherlock said it it was obvious he'd had those notions himself.

"Yeah," Phillip admitted in a low voice.

"Let me ask you this. If you had a friend like She was, one who talked to you and spent time with you, but didn't want you to have sex with them, would that be enough?" Sherlock's voice was soft.

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"It's stupid," he said, looking away.

"Even if it's stupid I'd still like to know."

"Well. Sometimes. When I'd spend the night at Her flat in bed with Her I'd think about how nice it was. And sometimes I'd, um, well, She liked me to do it too." His face darkened further. "I'd, um..."

Once again John was impressed with the way Sherlock was handling this. Normally he'd demand the person get to the point, but now he understood Phillip needed time. "You can tell me," he said, putting his hand back on his shoulder.

"I'd pretend that She was my mummy. Sometimes She would let me call her that." Phillip looked so mortified John wondered if he would just flee the flat and not return.

"And you would pretend She was your mother because?" Sherlock gently asked.

"My mum doesn't love me. With Her it might hurt or make you feel bad but She'd give you hugs too and let you sit in Her lap. Even if it hurt worse I'd have still put up with it because She was nice to me like other mums were." He leaned towards Sherlock, seemingly unaware of what he was doing.

While Phillip and Sherlock talked, John just stood there in silence. He didn't have the slightest clue what to say and at this point everything they were discussing was alien to him. Even so, a thought occurred to him. "When you were done with doing those things with her, did you feel good or miserable?"

Phillip, who was still leaning on Sherlock, snapped his head up to look at John. He looked surprised, like he had forgotten there was someone else in the room. "Bad," he said after a minute of silence. "I'd wish I could go wash myself off with acid. Even then I'd still ask. I'd crawl into Her lap and then I'd say 'Please fuck me.' If I didn't say please She'd remind me to do that. But I still did it so many times." He sounded despairing. "I hate myself."

At this point John figured that he shouldn't comment on that remark at all. "When exactly did she tell you that you were a sexual psychopath? And did you have any idea what that meant in the first place?"

"Little," Phillip said. "I think it was a little after we first met. I remember She had this blouse with flowers on it and I put my hand down it. Then She grabbed my wrist and said you had to ask before you did something like that. Because I hadn't She said She thought I couldn't control that part of me, and when I grew up I might attack people on the street. If I wanted to learn control I'd have to go to Her any time I felt something like that so other people could be safe." He paused. "When I got older She called me that more and more. She'd say I could barely wait for Her to take Her clothes off, and if I didn't learn some patience I'd be sent to jail. Since I was doing so much with Her. But She said She liked me so much She wouldn't tell them how bad I was so I could still be her friend. If I didn't want to come with Her to the flat or anywhere else She would ask me if I wanted to grow up to be a psychopath." Another pause. While he was still leaning on Sherlock he had gone back to looking at his hands. "You're right, I didn't know what that meant at first. But eventually I figured it out. That's why no one likes me."

John knew very well he couldn't say that wasn't true; while the reasoning was certainly flawed, he also knew Phillip had no friends at school and his mother clearly didn't care about him. "I like you," he finally said.

"I'm fond of you as well," Sherlock added. He turned to look Phillip in the eye. "Listen, Phillip. Go home. Get yourself some sleep. You can come back tomorrow and we can talk more if you would like."

"I didn't sleep at all last night," he admitted.

"Even more reason to get some tonight. Don't think about school now; you've got more important things on your mind. Come back tomorrow. Bring your flute and colored pencils." Sherlock produced a twenty pound note from somewhere. "The Tube's no good when you're this tired. Take a cab." Phillip took the money and stood up to leave. Sherlock stood as well and offered his hand. He was clearly expecting a handshake and looked surprised when Phillip grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug. Despite this, he hugged back. "Keep whatever money is left. Don't worry about it," Sherlock assured him. He nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

For the first time in many hours, John was alone with Sherlock. John wasn't sure what he was going to say and was almost relieved when Sherlock's mobile went off. "Lestrade? I know you had Phillip over at the Yard today for a lineup. You've already searched the house? That was fast." There was a very long period of silence, and what little color there was drained from his face. "I see." His voice wavered. "No. Don't try to talk me out of it, either. I'm seeing this to the end." He disconnects and tosses the mobile on the sofa. His eyes were suddenly blank. "They searched Her house earlier today." He sounded tired.

"What did they find?" John asks although he's already half sure of the answer.

"Several forms of false identification, including one for Dana Lester. Almost fifty thousand pounds, hidden in various places. Magazines containing child pornography. Two computers, a desktop and a laptop, containing thousands of pornographic images and videos involving children." He shut his eyes. "And a very large collection of photographs of children in various sexual acts. Most of them are unknown, but several resembled Jennifer Ogbeide -Bena, Moira Aherne, and Phillip Rodgers. Lestrade was able to identify one other person from the photographs, and he felt I should not work on this case anymore."

"Because they were pictures of you," John said, feeling sick even though he had known what they were before he even asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, eyes still closed. "You're right."


	23. Chapter 23

The room was silent. Sherlock had curled himself up on the sofa again, and John was sitting at the other end, trying to figure out what to do with the information he'd just been given. He understood why Lestrade had apparently suggested Sherlock not work on the case any more; the personal connection could be turned on him by whatever solicitors K acquired. At the same time he knew Sherlock wouldn't quit. It suddenly occurred to him there might not be a trial at all, if Mycroft got involved. He remembered he had threatened K if she tried to leave the country and he hadn't been joking. "Will you let her go to trial?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I will see Her on trial. I will see Her go to prison. I will see Her face when Moira and Phillip tell the court exactly what She has done with them." Sherlock sounded surprisingly matter-of-fact. "Mycroft will not have to intervene."

"Will you testify?" John wasn't referring to Sherlock's own history with K but rather what the conversation they had the day she had been arrested. In all likelihood whatever she'd done to Sherlock wasn't something she could be charged with anymore. Of course, it would still have to come out, if their conversation was brought up.

Sherlock turned to look at him and his face was ashen. "I... don't know." He started to shake.

"You're afraid of her." John wasn't being disparaging; he knew why Sherlock felt that way.

"My testimony would not be relevant," he continued, as though he hadn't heard what John said.

"Yes it would," John retorted. "At the very least you could tell them that she's doing the same things with Phillip she did with you, even to the point of telling him the same lies." Sherlock's eyes widened, and he looked away before curling up on himself. "That's why you tell people you're a sociopath, isn't it? She told you that you were a sexual psychopath just like she told Phillip." John didn't know for sure that was the case, but if Phillip had merely told him what he'd been called before he wouldn't have been so anxious about it. He'd even had the same sort of look on his face from when Phillip had mentioned he'd been made to abuse other children: a painful sort of understanding.

"Not relevant," he repeated flatly.

"Well, you're not. I don't care how many times she told you that was the case, it's not true. You care about Phillip. You care about Moira. You care about me. And you're certainly not some sort of sexual fiend. Even if you were, it wouldn't make a difference. She. Was. Lying. She told you that because if you didn't think you were the one in the wrong, if you even got the impression what she was doing was wrong, you'd still stay silent. Hell, none of the people who've talked about her said anything until you talked to them. That's a form of empathy." John had no idea if any of this was getting through, but he knew he had to try anyway.

"You're not going to testify." It was almost an accusation.

"Because until a few days ago I had no idea who this person was. I can talk about what happened when we went to her house, but other than that I can't say much. Even so, if for some reason they want me to testify I will."

"You're wrong. It's She who's right."

John hadn't expected the conversation to turn back in this direction, so he was momentarily speechless. "Bullshit. You care about me. And you've admitted you would be interested in pursuing a relationship with me but haven't done so because of the sex bit. I basically offered you that and you turned it down. So you're hardly some sex fiend who has to attack people to satisfy some urge. Even if you were, it wouldn't make a difference. She was the adult, you were the child." He realized that the last sentence was something he'd said several times already over the last few days. While he'd said it, there appeared to be no real way he could get through with it. In Sherlock's mind he'd been the bad one, not her. That thought was enough to open the floodgates, and before he realized what he was doing he sat on the other end of the sofa and started to sob.

Sherlock, for his part, had turned to stare at him. John could see him out of the corner of his eye, looking just as stunned as he must have when he'd realized who K was. "John?" he said after about a minute, sounding as bewildered as he looked.

John couldn't even think of a coherent response, so he went with his instinct. "I'm so sorry," he gasped out. "It's just all too much. Whenever you talk about her your voice just changes."

To his surprise, Sherlock rested a hand on his shoulder, like he had done with Phillip. "John?" he asked again, hesitantly, like that was all he could do.

"How could you have kept all that hurt in you for so long? You didn't tell anyone, ever. What made you keep quiet?" The tears were a little less frequent now, and while his voice was still thick he no longer had to gasp for breath after every word. "I know that you told your friend, but you didn't really tell him anything he hadn't guessed."

"I... I..." Sherlock turned away, although he didn't move his hand. "Please stop crying."

"Don't you hurt?" John asked in disbelief.

"It's... well... I don't know," he finally admitted. He looked ashamed.

While it seemed to be an off-the wall thing to say, John suspected it was the truth. Sherlock seemed to have dealt with the situation by putting it out of his mind; not precisely disassociation but more of an "out of sight, out of mind" scenario. If he didn't have to think about it, he didn't have to deal with the feelings that came with it. Of course, since the whole thing wasn't something you could neatly put away, it reached into all aspects of his life until he convinced himself he really didn't feel anything (which conveniently made her right about him). As a result, Sherlock was nothing but his intelligence - the very thing that made so many people avoid him. That also prevented him from having to make any new relationships where he might have to let his shields down. Now John had to try to chip through them.

"I can't stop thinking about Her," Sherlock said while still looking away.

"It's better than pretending she never existed, though. What she did to you won't go away if you don't think about it." John was matter-of-fact.

"Do you hate me?"

Out of all the things Sherlock could have said to him, that was one of the least expected. He turned to face Sherlock and from the look on his face John knew his expression was fierce. "What?" he said in complete disbelief.

"It's not unexpected if you do, of course. When She said you couldn't make me do anything, that was true." Sherlock spoke so rapidly that he seemed on the verge of hysteria. "I chose to keep going back there. I truly could have resisted if I disliked the sexual contact. If any of this came to light it would not be favorable to the case." Even as he said it he removed his hand from John's shoulder and shrank back against the end of the sofa.

"No, I don't hate you," John replied. What he wanted to do next was to refute his reasoning, but he realized he didn't have the energy to do so. "I'm going to make dinner. I'm willing to bet you haven't eaten anything today so you're going to join me for supper." He was seized with a sudden urge to give Sherlock a hug, or otherwise physically comfort him, but he knew that it wouldn't be received well. Instead he got up and headed towards the kitchen, trying to think of something he could make that would only take a few minutes. Almost all of the few things he could think of were unavailable due to lack of ingredients, so he gave up and just made up some pasta. When he gave Sherlock a plate he actually finished all of it, much to John's surprise. After that he remained curled up at his end of the sofa while John sat through an hour and a half of crap telly. John was glad he didn't have to go in again tomorrow. At least if he was at home he could keep an eye on Sherlock. The very thought that he had to "keep an eye" on someone that a few weeks ago he considered unwilling to show any sort of weakness was almost enough to make him start crying again. Wisely, John didn't do so until both of them had gone to bed.


	24. Chapter 24

The first time John woke up was when he heard noise coming from downstairs. It sounded like a howl of pain. He blinked in the early light of dawn and he listened further. He suspected that it was Sherlock, and headed downstairs. It could just be a nightmare, but even if it was one it was a bad one.

As he passed by Sherlock's room the sound got louder and without thinking about it he opened the door and headed inside. To his astonishment Sherlock was wide awake. In fact, not only was he awake, he was shredding what looked to be a pile of bedding with a knife. He was standing naked in front of a chair the bedding rested on as he slashed bits of the pile with long, furious swipes. Every few seconds he made the same howl. John debated whether it was best to just let him work out whatever he was doing or to intervene. He finally decided that any intervention needed to be low-key and simply said, "Sherlock?" in a normal sounding voice. It didn't quite snap him out, but Sherlock turned to face him, eyes still filled with fury.

"Get out. Get out now," he snarled.

"Not until you're calmed down," John stated calmly. "But if you're really determined to tear those sheets to shreds, wouldn't it be better to use a pair of scissors?"

That was enough to snap him out; Sherlock blinked and seemed suddenly aware how strange he looked naked and attacking sheets with a knife. He took a dressing gown from the floor and hastily tied it around himself. He was slightly pink, and didn't look John in the eye.

"I can understand why you're angry, but is this going to help?" John hoped he sounded gentle.

"I have to do something," Sherlock replied, looking at the floor.

"You're not even getting angry at the right person. It should be her you're furious at, not yourself." He knew that for Sherlock this was more than just anger at what had happened. Obviously he had difficulty reconciling his own physical responses with the fact John kept telling him he was not to blame. It was shame, really, shame at the fact his body continued to show he was not in control. She had convinced him that he was at fault and all this did was confirm that.

"You know perfectly well that She's not the one who's making this happen."

"Yes she is. First of all, you wouldn't be dreaming about her if you'd never met her. Second, if you met her but she never did anything to you, you might dream about someone else, but you wouldn't be so disturbed about it. She is the one who set everything you feel about sex into a tailspin. You're not wrong, bad, or evil for having sexual feelings. _She_ is the one who warped them, and none of this makes you less of a victim." John purposely chose the word "victim" because he knew that Sherlock saw himself as anything but, all to avoid placing any responsibility on K. Sherlock looked so uncomfortable with this that John decided to quickly change the subject. "If you need help destroying those, I can get some scissors," he volunteered.

"That won't be needed," Sherlock responded, still looking uncomfortable.

"If you don't want to destroy them more, you can just throw them out. It's not – "John caught himself before he finished with "something you can control". While it was true it was also not something Sherlock was ready to hear.

"I think I will go back to sleep," Sherlock said after a minute or so of uncomfortable silence.

"Just so you know, if you wake up feeling that angry again you can tell me about it. I don't mind being woken up and it seems like a better thing to do than shoot the wall or tear your bedsheets to shreds." John tried to keep his voice light, so the suggestion could be seen as a joke no matter how serious it was.

"I will consider it," Sherlock responded in that tight, formal voice he used whenever he was ill at ease.

"And with that I'm going to see if I can get a few more hours of sleep myself," John told him. He went back upstairs and was able to fall asleep again in a few minutes.

He woke up the second time to the sound of music. Sherlock hadn't picked up his violin in days, so it was a welcome sound. That welcome lasted only a few seconds before he realized there was another instrument playing. It sounded like a flute. He remembered Phillip Rodgers played the flute and figured as soon as he got downstairs Phillip would be there.

After a quick shower and getting dressed, John headed down the stairs. The music stopped as he reached the bottom of the steps, but before he could step into the sitting room he saw Sherlock sitting in a chair and give a slight shake of his head. "What I meant of course was that not all lessons can be learned in a classroom. I was not saying learning was not valuable."

"I don't like school anyway," Phillip responded in his boyish voice.

From Phillip's perspective it looked like Sherlock was just making some hand gesture, but John knew it was a warning to not come downstairs. John knew that Phillip trusted Sherlock in a way he didn't trust anyone else, and if he were to make his presence known Phillip would likely clam up. He gestured up the stairs in response, silently asking if he should go back upstairs. Sherlock gave a very slight shake of his head. He wanted John to at least hear what they were saying, at any rate.

"School isn't always enjoyable." Sherlock sounded sympathetic.

"You're so smart, though. Did you get good grades?"

"Not always."

"Everyone tells me to pay more attention. But it's just too much sometimes." Phillip's voice was heavy with despair.

"Why is that?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

"Because I know that it's just going to get worse as the day goes on."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I go home and mum yells at me and tells me to go away and the other kids at school tease me and if I know that She's not going to be by and take me to the flat I'll be all alone." John wished he could somehow comfort the boy. It didn't seem right to him that one child had to live with all that sadness. It said a lot about his life that his _abuser_ was the bright spot in his day. When Phillip next spoke it thankfully distracted him from those thoughts. "I never told you how I broke my arm."

"You gave an abridged version of it that was nonetheless correct in its essentials. If you are saying that you left out most of the details, that is correct. While I did hear Her version of the story - " As soon as Sherlock said that Phillip gasped. "Wait. I would like to hear what happened from your perspective if it is not abbreviated."

"Well, She... what did She say?" Phillip sounded terrified.

"What She said is not relevant. I want to know how you tell it." John could see Sherlock fold his hands over each other and place them in his lap.

"Will you promise not to get angry with me?" That comment, more than anything else, made John remember how young Phillip really was.

"I haven't gotten angry with you before. I am not going to do so in the future."

"All right." A pause. "You know that She used to work at St. Bart's, right?"

"I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that you met Her at work. Presumably you met Her there."

"Yeah. I thought I should tell you that. I didn't want to say too much before because I didn't want Her to think that I'd told someone about Her." Another pause. "Anyway, that day was really a bad one. My maths teacher said she didn't know if she could pass me and my history teacher caught me drawing in class and he said I'd never amount to anything. Sometimes right after school She'd be outside and that was one of those days. That was good to me because I felt so bad. I shut my eyes and She drove me to the flat and we went inside. We hadn't seen each other in a while and She took me right to the bedroom and started taking my clothes off." He stopped there for a moment, probably because he was embarrassed. "That's something She always liked to do. Said it was like unwrapping a present. Then She took Her clothes off and lay down on the bed. Um. I... She told me to, uh, use my tongue. Until then I always did what She said but everything had been so bad recently that I told Her I just wanted to cuddle first. I told you before about that. After we did whatever She wanted us to do we'd cuddle and hug and when I was real little She'd let me sit in Her lap. I didn't think it was that bad to ask because I'd always done what She told me before. But She got mad and told me to do it. Said that if I didn't She'd never let me go. I knew then I should just do it but I just stood there. That just made Her more mad and She stood up and grabbed my arm. I was scared then and I tried to get out of Her hands and to the door. Then She pulled me back so my arm was behind my back, and She's strong, you know. That's when I felt the bone break. I fell to the ground and She picked me up by the shoulders, punched me, and threw me back on the bed."

There was another pause. John didn't think that K would have to be that strong to do all that, as Phillip was slight. Even so the casual cruelty of it made him shudder. Phillip, once again, broke the silence. "My arm hurt so I didn't want to move. At first She just rubbed me but after a bit, when She got that to work She grabbed my thighs and spread them apart, really hard. 'You really think you can get away with that?' She said. 'You think you're special, can do all that before you get what you want? You're just one of a hundred and I could replace you at any time!' After that She just stayed on top of me until She was done. That was when She told me to go to Bart's. I asked Her what I should tell them and She said to say I'd been wrestling with a friend. Then I said something really stupid."

"What?" Sherlock asked. As seemed to be the case more and more, John was surprised at how calm and matter of fact he was able to remain. Whether that was from his own experience or he had somehow deduced already what had happened John didn't know.

"I said what if I told the doctor there what happened. You know, that She'd done it and what happened after. But She just laughed and said She'd say She'd been fighting me off and who would they believe, me or Her? And I knew that She was right and if I hadn't been so greedy I wouldn't have gotten hurt." Phillip sounded resigned. "I figured if they found out the truth I'd get arrested so I just told Her I'd say I'd been wrestling. Then I shut my eyes again and we left the flat and She dropped me off at the front of Bart's." He paused. "Now you know the whole story."

"You weren't being greedy, Phillip. It's not greedy to want affection."

"Can we play something again?" Phillip clearly wanted to change the subject.

"If you like." As Sherlock reached to the side of the chair to pick up his violin, he gestured to John that it was all right to come down the stairs. By the time John came down to the room, the two of them were playing some new tune. "Good morning, John," Sherlock said without missing a note, like he hadn't seen him sitting on the stairs for the last fifteen minutes or so.

"Good morning," he replied. "Hello Phillip, have you been here a long time?"

Phillip put down his flute in his lap. "A little while. Your landlady gave me a muffin and a banana for breakfast, and Mr. Holmes let me have some milk."

"Did you know I used to play the clarinet?" John sat himself down on the sofa.

"No, I didn't. Did you want to play the saxophone?" He tilted his head in a curious look.

"No, I didn't. Why would you think that?" John couldn't figure out what the connection between the two was.

"The saxophone is a complex instrument and it is typically recommended that someone wishing to play it start on the clarinet to familiarize themselves with the layout," Sherlock responded in the "you're an idiot for not figuring this out yourself" tone John hadn't heard in days. "Of course some will find the clarinet pleasing on its own."

"No, I wasn't planning on ever playing the saxophone. It seemed complicated," he admitted. "Why did you pick the flute?"

"It was right in front of me," Phillip said, and John and Sherlock both laughed at his frankness.

"Why don't we play something else?" Sherlock suggested, and Phillip picked up his flute again. For the better part of an hour the two of them played a set of music that John didn't recognize at all. He could see how happy it was making them, though, and that was enough.

The concert came to an abrupt end when there was a knock on the door. John got up to answer it and opened the door to see Lestrade standing there, a large pile of papers in his hands. "I've brought over some of the material confiscated from Dr. Martin's house," he told John as he stepped into the sitting room. When he saw Phillip there, he stopped and stared.

"I invited Phillip here today. Not all lessons can be learned in a classroom. Of course, since this is Yard business he'll probably want to leave now." Sherlock was calm as he spoke. The music seemed to have relaxed him.

"I'll go back home now," Phillip said. He stood, put his flute away in its case, and headed for the door.

"You can call me any time you like, Phillip. I would like to hear from you again." When Phillip heard Sherlock speak, he turned to face him. He didn't say anything, but he nodded before turning to leave. Sherlock then stood by the window and watched him as he descended the steps and walked towards the Tube station. Only when Phillip was out of sight did he speak again. "I presume most of what you've brought with you is of a delicate nature?" He sat down in the chair Phillip had been sitting in.

"Yes," said Lestrade with a sigh. "And since I doubt at this point I'll convince you to let go of the case, I should inform you that you feature in Dr. Martin's current defense."

"How does that work?" John dared to ask.

"For one, she currently claims that he made 'advances' to her when he was fourteen and her refusal was what caused him to have so much anger towards her." From the look on Lestrade's face he clearly wasn't eager to add anything, but he did say "Oh, and any pornography found in the house was planted by him at an earlier date. She says it's yours."


	25. Chapter 25

"What?" John said in disbelief. "How could he have done that? He was only at that house once and he never even went inside."

"I didn't say it was a credible defense." Lestrade lay the file in front of them. "What I think she and her solicitors are trying to do is throw out as many alternate explanations as possible to confuse the jurors. Remember, before they see any of the evidence they'll see a nice, kind older woman. That alone is going to make them skeptical. Throw in that none of the supposed victims have talked before now and the fact they only did so when Sherlock talked to them and you have enough to make them doubt."

"How much of what you found is in that file?" Sherlock asked, his voice indicating he thought they were spending too much time on trivial things.

"Not all of it, of course. Most of the photographs. We're still trying to identify the children in most of them." There was an awkward silence.

"Are there any identifiable adults in these photographs?" Sherlock tightly asked.

"No. There rarely are. These pictures were especially bad for that; lots of children doing sexual things to each other and some of children engaging in solo sexual activity, but only a few where there are adults you can see. Even in those cases it's someone's back or side. Nothing that can identify the person, never any distinguishing marks, much less a face." Lestrade pointedly avoided looking at Sherlock. "The images and videos found on the computer may be easier to track down. We've requested assistance from a place in the States that specializes in online trafficking of minors."

"Any luck with that so far?" John asked. Lestrade seemed to be doing his best to pretend Sherlock wasn't there, so John decided to be direct.

"Actually, yes. Some. A few of the images were originally traded online, on a password-protected forum. It was brought down in a sweep a few years ago, but several members, including some frequent posters, are still unidentified. Dr. Martin might not have been a member of that board - and nothing on her computer or laptop indicated that she'd been there at all - but she clearly knew some of the posters there."

"Please remember that K is a wealthy individual. She could easily buy hard drives, or even whole systems, and smash or otherwise destroy them before anyone could find them, on a regular basis." Sherlock deliberately stared at Lestrade as he said this. "I doubt if you found any of those items they would be of use, but a look at her credit card bills may prove helpful in that regard."

"We've requested them, but they haven't come yet." Lestrade began to shuffle through the file again.

"Do you think any of the children in the photographs were previously her foster children?" John had just thought of it now, but it seemed frighteningly logical.

"Possibly. Once again, we've requested the records from social services but they haven't come up yet. She hasn't fostered in several years so the records aren't as easily accessed." John could see Lestrade take a deep breath. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that Dr. Martin appears to have planned for every contingency. Even before seeing all this I suspected this K was clever and knew how to not get caught, but it still boggles the mind." He shook his head.

For some reason, hearing K called "Dr. Martin" always unnerved John. The thought that someone who had gone through the same training he had - and even worse, someone who regularly cared for children - could still be that sort of monster was hard to believe. Dr. Arthur had been racist, sexist, and arrogant, but John hadn't wanted to divorce him from their shared profession. He swallowed before speaking. "Since she used to work at St. Barts, would you be able to go through the records there and look for anything? For all we know, some of the victims could have been treated by her."

"We should," Lestrade said. He shuddered before saying, "God. For some reason that's the thing that bothers me the most. Working constantly with small children, like a parade of potential victims."

"Where is She currently employed?" Sherlock had been silent for so long that John was startled when he spoke.

"A swing shift position in a clinic for the homeless and their families. It's specifically geared to address the additional issues that may come with living rough." Lestrade still didn't look at him. John wondered if he too could hear the capital letter in She. "She works there three evenings a week."

"Are you going to question any of the children treated there?" Sherlock seemed all business. Knowing how much anxiety even mentioning K usually provoked in him, John wasn't sure whether to admire or shake his head about Sherlock's ability to shut off whatever he was feeling.

"If we can get permission from their parents," he replied, still not looking at Sherlock. "By the way, Mr. Aherne called the Yard earlier today and he said that Moira wants to talk to you again this weekend."

Sherlock made a sound of dismissal. "Of course. Now that K is jailed and Moira knows she is truly safe, she's far more willing to discuss what was going on between the two of them."

"Did you already deduce that her brother wants to talk to you as well?" Lestrade looked smug as he revealed his trump card.

The bored look on Sherlock's face changed into one of surprise. "No. I did not." He sounded subdued.

After hearing that, Lestrade seemed significantly less triumphant. "He apparently mentioned it to his father. Said it was important."

"I'll speak with him."

"Good." Lestrade seemed eager to change the subject. "With all this that needs to be done, you understand it will be a while before any trial starts."

"Understandable," Sherlock replied flatly.

By now Lestrade looked decidedly uncomfortable, and he stood, taking the file from the table. "I just wanted to keep the two of you updated. I should be going." He didn't wait for a goodbye; he just walked out the door and down the steps.

John was somewhat relieved that he was gone. He knew that Lestrade would know better than to bring up the subject of the photographs with Sherlock, but he might try to bring it up with John. The mere thought of it made John remember their brief, awkward conversation the night K had broken into the Aherne's flat. On the other hand, that meant he was now alone with Sherlock again, and the thought of more awkward silence between the two of them wasn't much more appealing. He was wondering if he should turn on the television when Sherlock spoke.

"How many relationships have you been in?" Sherlock was clearly trying to use the detached way of questioning that he used on cases, but there was a clear note of emotion.

"Serious relationships? Or are you just asking how many people I've dated?" John tried to sound casual.

"Are the numbers similar?"

He dodged the question. "Somewhat. If you add no-strings-attached sex to that, the total is probably quite a bit bigger. Medical students like to party."

"You enjoy that." It wasn't a question, but Sherlock said it like it was a source of bafflement.

"Do you mean sex, or relationships?" He wasn't sure he wanted to start going down this road.

"Both."

Well, that certainly didn't help matters. "All of this isn't particularly specific. Can you at least think of one specific thing to ask?"

"Why do you enjoy that so much?"

That wasn't specific at all, but John realized then that Sherlock was trying to avoid saying certain words. "Are you asking me why I enjoy sex?"

Sherlock didn't actually blush, but he turned away so John couldn't see his face. "Yes."

"That's a complicated question," he said, aware he was stalling but truly not sure where he should begin.

"I have time."

"There's a lot of reasons. The physical sensations are certainly part of it." He paused to gather his thoughts. "I would have to say that's a major part of it. Not just orgasm, but the physical closeness, just touching someone skin to skin. There's emotional closeness, too. It's not always there, of course, but when it is it makes things feel better. That's what makes it pleasurable for me, at least."

"How do you feel afterwards?"

John hadn't been expecting a question like that. "Relaxed. Tired. Generally content."

"Not -" He cut himself off.

"Not what?" John asked.

"Nothing important," Sherlock said dismissively.

"It was important. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked me anything. In fact, you wouldn't have said anything in the first place."

"Drop the subject." He sounded so firm that John knew to push the issue would probably result in disaster.

"All right." He still felt the need to add: "But if you do want to bring it up again I'll be willing to listen."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Sherlock rose out of the chair with a look of fury. "You think it's funny, don't you!"

John blinked. "What?" he said in confusion.

"You and your three continents! I'll bet you just think it's hilarious! That's why you went on about how good it felt! You thought it was funny that I wanted to bathe in acid! You're thinking about how I just didn't know how good I had it!" Before John could respond Sherlock turned and stormed away up the stairs. He still hadn't been able to process what had happened when he heard the door slam shut.

Knowing that he shouldn't delay the conversation further, he headed up the stairs as soon as he realized what Sherlock meant. "Can I come in?" John said to the door.

"Go away."

"If you won't let me in I'll just talk through the door, you know."

"Do that."

"First of all, I didn't know that's how you felt. If I had known at the time I wouldn't think it was funny." John paused. He hoped that Sherlock would have made some response, but when he got none he went on. "Second, I wasn't thinking about 'how good you had it,' as you said. There's a world of difference between what happened to you and my own experience."

"Go away." Even through the door his voice was thick.

John decided that now was not the time to push the issue. "All right, I'm going back downstairs." His head was spinning. Part of him just wanted Mycroft to conveniently vanish K and make the whole stress of more evidence finding and the trial go away. Even if that happened, though, John knew that nothing that the case had stirred up would go away. Truthfully, it was a miracle that Sherlock had gone this long without collapsing. Maybe it was the fact that he was being brought face to face with his abuser as well as living with someone he was clearly interested in a relationship with, sex or no sex. As much as he wanted Sherlock to see a therapist about all this, he knew he couldn't force him. They were both too far on the rollercoaster at this point to get off.


	26. Chapter 26

On Saturday afternoon John, Sherlock, and Lestrade journeyed to the Aherne's flat once more. Lestrade had come along to show Mr. Aherne some of the more recent photographs, both so he could positively identify any of his daughter and in the faint hope that he might be able to identify some of the other children. All three of them were silent for the whole trip, which was a blessing.

Sherlock had been doing his best to avoid John for the past few days. It seemed like any time John was at home he'd either be shut up in his room or just about to dash out of the door. It made him hard to live with, but John knew there was no way they were about to be going back to whatever they had had before this case.

When they arrived at the flat, Mr. Aherne answered the door. He looked more cheerful than John had ever seen him. John knew that was probably because K was finally behind bars and couldn't hurt his daughter any more. In fact, a lot of the lines on his face that John had attributed to age had vanished. "Right on time," he said. "Come in. Moira's playing with her brother in the living room. Mr. Holmes, if you want to talk with them in private you can go to either of their rooms. Mr. Lestrade, you said something about wanting to go through photographs with me?"

"That would be correct," Lestrade said as they stepped into the flat. "The material is of a sensitive nature so you may want us to go through them in a less public spot."

Mr. Aherne stopped leading them into the kitchen and turned around. "Not possible, I'm afraid. I've got bread in the oven." He didn't need to point that out; the smell of it baking wafted from the kitchen. "Our Saturday suppers haven't been as good as they should be recently, so I decided I'd go all out today." He looked at Sherlock's left arm, where a nicotine patch was visible between his hand and coat sleeve. "Trying to quit?" he asked. "I gave it up myself when Nora first got pregnant. They say it's harder than with hard drugs."

"I've never smoked." Sherlock's tone made it very clear that he wasn't going to discuss it further. Fortunately, Mr. Aherne just half-nodded in his direction and continued to lead them into the kitchen. He motioned for Lestrade to sit down at the kitchen table. When he had done so, Mr. Aherne sat in the chair next to him. Sherlock had already went into the living room, and John followed him.

All three of the Aherne children were in there. Dierdre was off in a corner by herself, sitting amongst a herd of My Little Ponies. Moira and Kieran were spread out over half the floor, with action figures of what appeared to be half the casts of both Star Wars and Doctor Who all around them. Moira was making the Millennium Falcon circle above them. She had her back turned to Sherlock and didn't turn around until he said, "Moira?" quietly.

She smiled. "Mr. Holmes! You've got to come to my room because I've..."

Her brother interrupted her. "Don't ruin the surprise for him. Dad said you couldn't do that until after we talked to him."

"I think we should go to your room to talk anyway. It would be quieter in there. Also, Lestrade wants to talk to your father and he'd prefer to do so in private," Sherlock told her. John knew perfectly well that the reason was that Mr. Aherne might react badly to the photographs, but he also knew that wasn't something Moira needed to hear.

"All right." She put the Millennium Falcon on the floor. "Don't touch any of the toys here," she ordered her sister. "Everything needs to be here for when Han shows up on Gallifrey."

Dierdre made a face. "I'm not going to touch your silly little space monsters."

Kieran snidely replied, "Just because you practically wet yourself every time you hear the theme music..."

"Enough," Mr. Aherne said before he could finish whatever he was going to say. "Moira, Kieran, you can go to Moira's room to talk. Dierdre, please don't touch their toys." He was calm. The folder Lestrade had brought with him was sitting on the table, but it hadn't been opened yet. Fortunately the twins scampered down the hall to Moira's room, John and Sherlock following close behind, so they weren't aware of what was going on a room away.

Rory the dog was sprawled out on Moira's bed, but got off it and came over to the two children, who patted his head and scratched his ears eagerly. "You remember Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, don't you?" Moira said. He walked over to where John and Sherlock were standing and sniffed them. Apparently satisfied they were not intruders, the dog lay down on the actual dog bed on the floor. "He probably wanted to see if you had any sweets," said Moira. She sat down on the bed and motioned for Sherlock to sit there as well.

"I'm glad to get Rory's seal of approval," Sherlock told her. He sat down next to her and brought out the tape recorder. Moira didn't seem surprised to see it; she looked like she had expected it to be there. When John and Kieran had positioned themselves on the floor, he spoke again. "Which one of you would like to talk to me first? Or is it something you both have to tell me together?"

Kieran looked relaxed, but Moira obviously tensed, and John expected he would volunteer. Instead he said "Moira first. She's got the big stuff."

Moira reached one arm back to bring Brownie into her arms before talking. "When I said no one came to see me in the hospital but me dad and Kieran and Dierdre? That wasn't true."

"I know that," Sherlock said, like she was merely revealing that the weather that day had been bad.

"The first night I was there, they took me up to the room and that police officer – Sally, I think her name was? She had tried to talk to me before after I got the stitches, and she tried to talk to me one more time, except me dad wasn't there." She looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"She's not the person you were talking about when you said someone else visited you, though, right?" he said.

She shook her head. "No. She asked me if me dad had hurt me and I said he didn't. Then she said that no one should touch me there but a doctor. I got real scared then because K said that too and said that was why it was okay, because She was a doctor." John had gotten used to the capital letters in She at this point, but it still unnerved him to hear it. "So I didn't say anything and just held Brownie until she left. Me dad came up for a bit and asked me if I wanted anything because he had to go home so everyone else could rest. I told him to get a book. I had to take a pill that tasted like clay the nurse brought me and then I fell asleep. When I woke up it was really early and the sun had just come up." Moira brought the bear closer to her chest. "A few minutes later someone knocked on the door and then K came into the room." The memory clearly disturbed her; she visibly shuddered.

"Did She have something that She wanted to tell you?"

"Yeah, She asked me if I'd said anything to anyone and I said no. Then She asked me if I knew what happened to squealers and I said I did. After that She left. Me dad rang the room I was in to ask what book I wanted and I said I wanted the Stephen Hawking one he wrote with his daughter. I thought about what K had said and I told him to bring the picture on the mantle we got taken before we moved to London. That way I could look at them any time someone asked me what happened so I'd remember to keep my mouth shut." She paused. "And Dr. Watson came to talk to me later that day. Then you showed up," she said, pointing to Sherlock.

"Before you went to the hospital. When was the last time you saw K?" John asked.

Moira turned to him in surprise, obviously not expecting him to speak. "The afternoon of the day I went to hospital. I took Rory for a walk and She was in the park. I almost always saw Her there first. The other times She'd come in my room."

"Did you stay in the park all the time when you met K there, or did you go somewhere else?" said Sherlock.

"A few times when the weather was nice we'd stay there but we usually went to a flat nearby. I thought it was where She lived but She said once it belonged to a friend. Sometimes I got biscuits and ice creams. If Rory was with me when I went to the park we'd stay there. Then we'd just go in the bathrooms. Sometimes I'd walk Rory come and come back after."

"What happened on that last day?" John pressed.

"I went to the park with Rory. I was kind of sad because me dad had yelled at me before. I wanted to wear my purple space kitten sweatshirt when I got home but he said it was dirty. I tried to get it anyway and then he yelled and I said I hated him." She looked down at the bear in her arms. "I told Her all about it when I got there and She said me dad didn't love me much if he yelled. She gave me a hug and I sat in her lap."

"Were you in the bathroom then or just sitting on a bench?" asked Sherlock.

"Bathroom. The big stall."

"Tell us what happened."

"Not that much. Not like usual, I mean, since Rory was there. I thought it would be okay because She said She just wanted to touch me. At first that was all She did but after a bit She started to use Her fingers."

"By 'use Her fingers,' you mean for penetration, correct?" Sherlock didn't seem bothered by what he said, but John couldn't help but shiver.

"Yeah."

"Vaginally or anally?"

"Both," Moira said, looking away as she spoke. At first John wondered if she knew what that meant but remembered Mr. Aherne's comment at the beginning of the case (it seemed so long ago) about answering those questions as they came up. He figured that a child like Moira, who was so interested in science, wouldn't have settled for vague slang terms. He was also glad Sherlock could carry on with the questioning; he couldn't think of anything to say at all.

"At the same time?"

"No. One at a time. But there was more than one finger when She did."

"By that you mean more than one finger in one place?"

"Yeah. It always hurts and feels icky but this time it hurt more. When She got ready to leave I saw blood on Her finger. I just wanted to get home so I didn't say anything. After I got home I looked again and there was still blood. I took off the underpants I was wearing and stuffed them in the hamper. I told me dad that I wasn't hungry for supper and just stayed in my room. I checked again before I fell asleep and there was only a little blood so I thought it was okay. Then me dad woke me up and you know what happens after that."

"Is that all you wanted to tell me right now?" Sherlock's voice was soft.

"I think so, yeah." Her shoulders sagged with visible relief. She looked at her brother.

"My turn, then," Kieran said. Without waiting for Sherlock or John to say anything, he launched into his story. "When Moira picked that woman out of the lineup, I knew who she was going to pick. I'd seen her before."

"Just seen her?" Sherlock asked, the sound of his voice clearly indicating he thought it was more than that.

"Not just seen her. It's, you see -" He looked up at his sister, like he was asking permission.

"You can tell him," said Moira. Whatever it was she clearly knew about it.

"It was a few months ago. I think it was right after the new year. It was late in the day and Moira'd gone to the park a few hours ago and me dad said to walk down there and bring her home before she froze to death. So I walked down there and she was sitting on one of the benches with this lady I'd never seen before. I was going to yell at her to come home but then that woman got up to leave and kissed her." He scowled. "Not like how me dad kisses us, on the cheek or the forehead. On the mouth, like you see in those silly romance movies."

He looked down into his lap, and only when Sherlock told him, "Go on," did he do so.

"Once that woman left Moira saw me a minute later and walked over. She asked me if Dad had told me to go get her and I asked her who that woman was. She said it was just a friend of hers. I said she looked older than our dad. She said that the woman was still her friend. Then I asked her why she'd kissed her. She told me to shut up. I didn't know what to say then so I just started walking back home. Right before we went inside Moira told me to not tell anyone about the woman I saw. So I didn't, until now. I didn't know it was the same person who hurt her until she was in the lineup." Like his sister, he seemed to be relieved to be telling someone about it. She apparently understood that, because she touched his shoulder briefly. Kieran smiled up at her in appreciation.

"If your sister hadn't asked you to not say anything about K, would you have told someone?" Sherlock asked.

"No," he said. "I don't know if I would have said anything if someone had asked me. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

John wasn't sure if he was referring to Sherlock or both of them, but responded anyway. "I've got an older sister."

"An older brother," Sherlock curtly replied, the first time John had seen him even show a hint of the usual way he questioned others with the children in the case.

"Then I guess you understand some. Not that much, though, 'cause Moira's my twin. We tell each other stuff we don't tell other people. Even if I get mad at her, she's still my twin. No matter what else happens, we always have each other. So we keep each other's secrets." He glanced at both John and Sherlock, looking to see if they understood.

"I understand," said Sherlock, although John had no clue whether he really meant it or not.

As soon as he said that, Moira jumped off the bed and ran towards her closet. "I can give it to him now, right?" she asked her brother. "We've already said everything."

"Take it out," Kieran said.

Without a look backward she opened the closet door and pulled out a box slightly larger than a pillow. She placed the box on the bed next to Sherlock. "When I picked K out of the lineup, me dad took us for ice creams and there was a store nearby and he let us go inside. I found this there and told me dad we had to get you it. I'd saved up a lot of pocket money and I used that and me dad helped. He didn't know if it was a good idea but I told him why I wanted to get it and he said that was okay." The words rushed out one after another. Sherlock still hadn't touched the box, so she added, "Go on, open it."

Very slowly, Sherlock lifted the lid off the box. From the angle he was sitting at, John couldn't see what was in it, but he could see Sherlock's eyes widen. He halfway shook his head, like he couldn't believe what he saw. Moira and Kieran both watched anxiously, clearly waiting for some sort of response. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock reached into the box and pulled out his gift. There were a lot of things John thought it could be, but what Sherlock pulled out was not something he had been expecting.

It was a bee. A large stuffed bumblebee. Its yellow and black stripes shone like any new stuffed toy did. It had two beady black eyes, six legs, and antennae. Sherlock continued to stare at it as it sat in his lap. He seemed paralyzed.

"Do you like it?" Moira asked. She sounded anxious. "Me dad said that you were old for a toy but I thought since yours got taken away you'd miss it."

Sherlock stood up, holding the bee in his arms. He blinked. "It's fine. Thank you, Moira."

The scene was abruptly broken by Lestrade poking his head into the room. "Are you finished in there? I've finished going through the file with Mr. Aherne." At that point he noticed the stuffed bee and his eyebrows drew together. "What is that?" he said, confused.

"A gift from me for Mr. Holmes," Moira responded.

"I see." He clearly didn't.

Whatever else Lestrade was going to say was lost, as at that moment Mr. Aherne walked into the room. His face was unnaturally white and his eyes were reddened, but when he spoke his obvious distress didn't show. "The bread's out of the oven and I'm going to start supper now. Kieran, it's your job to peel the potatoes. Moira, you'll peel the carrots. The roast's already in the oven." Both of the children got up and passed by Lestrade as they went through the door, their father behind. That was what seemed to snap Sherlock out of his reverie; he turned off the tape recorder that was still sitting on the bed, picked it up with his free hand, and headed out the door.

"I suppose you'll want this," he said, taking the tape out and handing it to Lestrade.

"Yes, thank you," Lestrade responded, still looking at the large stuffed bee that Sherlock had tucked under his arm. "We've also gotten some leads on some of K's former foster children, especially a family of four that lived with her for almost a year six years ago. While we all think it's important for Phillip Rodgers and Moira Aherne look through the photographs, it's probably a good idea if we wait on that. They've been through enough already."

"How long before all this is brought to the Crown Court?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "No idea. Right now this is a priority case. It's amazing it hasn't gotten through to the press. K is probably thinking that seeking attention will backfire no matter how innocent she looks. Oh, and John, an officer is going to be questioning any of the people at St. Bart's that were familiar with her when she worked there. I know you didn't work with her but I figured you should get a notice of that anyway."

"Quite," said Sherlock, his voice flat. "Do you need us for anything at the Yard or should we part ways here?"

"You're free to head home," he told them, still sneaking glances at the bee under Sherlock's arm.

Unlike someone covered in blood and wielding a harpoon, the cabs of London were more than willing to take two men with a large stuffed bee, even if the driver kept looking back at it in confusion. Sherlock kept it tucked under his arm the whole time. John couldn't tell if he was happy with the gift. He seemed numb, as if he was in shock. In fact, until they clambered up the stairs and back into 221B he was oddly expressionless. Whether this would have continued after they were at home John didn't know, because as soon as they stepped through the door they were greeted by a visitor.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, clearly angry.


	27. Chapter 27

"Sherlock," said Mycroft. He was sitting on the sofa, calm and collected. "You've rebuffed my previous attempts at communication, so I've had no choice but to appear in person."

"Go away. I already told you that it wasn't up for discussion." Despite what he said, Sherlock made no motion to leave the room. "Save all your concern for the trial."

"I'm not disputing your desire for a trial."

"Well, you certainly didn't come here for a friendly chat."

"I merely wished to ask if you were going to be involved in a way that does not involve an investigation."

"It's a little early to ask if he's going to testify, isn't it? We're still waiting on more charges," John broke in. "There's not even a trial date."

"Are you happy you finally got your man? Is that it? That one great mystery even you couldn't figure out got solved?" Sherlock acted like he hadn't heard anything John said. "Who did you think it was?"

"I didn't think it was anyone in particular. If you're asking whether I'm pleased to see her arrested at last, I can't deny that." Mycroft continued to look at Sherlock. John suddenly felt very like a third wheel.

"You've interfered enough. Go away."

"I was only trying to -"

"Get out! Get out now! You're only making things worse!"

Mycroft headed for the door, not looking back. "I'll be in touch," he said before he disappeared from sight. Once he was gone, Sherlock slumped down on to the sofa, bee still under one arm. He breathed heavily, like he had just engaged in vigorous activity.

While John wasn't sure this was the best time to question Sherlock about the case, he felt that starting a conversation would at least prevent one of his silent moods. "K took Moira to her flat, like she did with Phillip. But she let Moira see where it was; she didn't tell her to keep her eyes shut the whole time. Why is that?"

"In most cases K can meet Her victims in a neutral place until She is satisfied with their ability to remain silent. However, She met Phillip in the course of Her work. One might be able to pass off a meeting in a public place as a chance encounter, but when a four year old boy who isn't your own child repeatedly comes to your workplace you need another option."

"He came to see her at work?" John wondered how little supervision a four year old child would have to be able to do something like that again and again.

"Of course. Phillip wanted friends. He wanted to be loved. Who would give that to him but Her?"

"But why keep it up even after she knows he's not going to talk?" John asked.

"Control. She relishes the control it gives Her over him. That way She controls his body, his friends, his mind, and even his sense of location." He sounded fatigued.

None of that was particularly surprising to John. K had already shown she was a great manipulator. For all he knew K found that control erotic. That disturbed him enough to change the subject. "Are you going to bring your bee up to your room?"

"Do you find it amusing that a grown man is pleased with a gift like that?" A typical Sherlock response.

"No. Moira's intentions were good and she was trying to reach out to you with that. You probably see it that way. And you did lose your first one. Even if you were really too old for it, I can see why it would be so upsetting to lose such an important part of your childhood." Every time John talked to Sherlock so directly about his past, he felt like he was constructing a conversation from cobwebs. "I would be pleased with it myself. She did that because she cares about you. That counts."

Sherlock still had not removed his arm from the bee. "I presume you had some sort of object like that as a child?"

"Yes. A dog, a bulldog."

"What happened to it?"

"Right before I left for uni I realized I didn't really need it, so I gave it and a bunch of other toys to charity." John hadn't thought about that toy in years. "Not that everyone does. Harry's still got the lamb she had as a kid. She's said she's going to be buried with it."

"And she's not joking?" Sherlock sounded like he didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"No. Last time I talked to her she was still sleeping with it. Lots of people have some old toy they cherish."

"Was that what broke up her marriage?"

John would have laughed, but one look at Sherlock made him realize that he wasn't kidding. "No, that was the alcohol. Clara said once she thought it was kind of cute, herself."

That seemed to stymie Sherlock; he looked confused as he sat there and digested that information. "I think I should bring this upstairs," he finally said. He headed up the stairs, bee tucked under one arm. Since he clearly needed time alone, John decided to give him some space. He half expected to not see him for the rest of the day. Almost every time he had an emotionally charged conversation with John recently he would flee once it was done. John stretched out on the sofa intending to watch telly for a while but the whirlwind of the past few days caught up with him and he only watched it for a few minutes before drifting off to sleep.

When he woke up, Sherlock was sitting in one of the chairs, violin in his lap. "I thought that you wouldn't be able to adjust to the sound," he said by manner of explanation as John looked him in the eye.

"It would've been fine. I've slept through worse," John reassured him.

"Lestrade rang while you were asleep."

"That soon?"

"Apparently he has been able to locate the four siblings that K fostered six years ago. One of the boys now has a child and it came up in the medical record search." He sounded detached, but John suspected it was artificial detachment rather than the standard distance he usually placed between him and the victims of a case.

"Did he tell you anything else?" What John wanted to hear was that all four of them said that nothing had happened and K had been good to them. He also knew that was unlikely.

"Some basic information about them. There are three boys, identical triplets, and one girl. Their mother died eight years ago and their father took to drinking. He became violent when drunk and they were removed from their home after an incident with the girl; one of her teeth was knocked out. After a year in care they found a cousin of the mother who took them in. She reported they frequently ran away from her home and all of them left the home as soon as they turned sixteen. The boy who has a child has gone through drug rehab and has a job. None of the others are currently employed; the girl lives in a hostel but the other two boys are apparently still on the streets." Sherlock managed to maintain the detached tone he had before until the last two sentences.

"Anyone who knew them from before they were taken into care say they had behavior problems?" John asked.

"No. In fact they were all excellent students, but shortly after they were taken into care they dropped sharply. All of them later left school without finishing." There was no mistaking the disgust in Sherlock's voice. "Lestrade spoke to all of them briefly and they consented to be interviewed."

"And that's our job," John concluded.

Sherlock half-smiled. "That is our job indeed."

John looked at his watch and realized it was far past the time he usually ate supper. "I should make something to eat."

"Why don't we go out?" Sherlock said.

It occurred to John that they hadn't eaten out or gotten takeaway during this case at all, besides that awkward dinner with Lestrade. "If you want to." Come to think of it, even suggesting that they eat somewhere was strange for Sherlock.

"You're hungry."

"Yes, I am, but that doesn't mean I want to go out if you don't."

"If I didn't want to go out to eat somewhere I wouldn't have suggested it. Since when have you known me to do something I don't want to do just because someone else wants it?"

What Sherlock said made sense, but John still had a feeling that there was more to it than that. "All right. Just let me get my coat and wallet."

"Do you have a particular preference as to where you would like to eat?" Sherlock said before he could leave the room.

The stilted formality of the question made alarm bells go off in John's head, but he couldn't figure out why. "Angelo's is fine," he hastily replied before leaving the room.

When he came back downstairs Sherlock was still in the same position, like he hadn't moved at all. "Let's walk," he said as soon as he saw John.

That set off even more alarms. "Fine," he said. He couldn't think of a reason not to short of point blank questioning Sherlock's motives.

The walk seemed twice as long as it normally would be. Sherlock didn't seem like he was looking forward to the meal, but he didn't seem to be concerned about it. He seemed more resigned.

John wasn't sure if it was just that the owner considered them always welcome or its overall atmosphere, but he always enjoyed going to Angelo's. It had a warm, cozy atmosphere that was like a soft jumper you could wrap yourself in. The smell of Italian food was rich in the air, and he realized he was starving. Sherlock only glanced at the menu before putting it down, while John spent a few minutes before choosing a dish. "Wine?" Sherlock asked once he looked up from the menu.

"Why not?" John rarely drank to excess, but after all that had happened over the past few weeks getting drunk almost sounded appealing.

The wine turned out to be a very good idea, as Sherlock didn't appear to be interested in carrying on a conversation. Any time John tried to engage him in some line of discussion he would reply in monosyllables or silence. When John finally gave up Sherlock silently picked at his veal parmesan and sipped at what would turn out to be several glasses of wine. This unnerved John more than he thought possible, so he ate his fettuccini alfredo as fast as he could just so they could get back home.

In retrospect, it should have been very obvious. The whole bottle of wine was gone by the time they paid for their meals and left, and John had only had one glass. But the normally welcoming atmosphere of the restaurant had become cloaked with silence and all he could think about was being at home again. He would later think that in his own defense, Sherlock didn't seem drunk. He walked with the same loping strides he always used, and when he said, "Let's go," when John asked if he was ready to leave, his voice was the same as always. Even on the walk home nothing seemed amiss, so John couldn't have been more surprised when they were back at 221B. For as soon at the door was shut and locked, Sherlock pushed him up against the nearest wall and kissed him.

While John would never deny that he'd fantasized about this moment, in his fantasies it was a little different than now. One, in fantasy he was usually the one to start it, and second, in his fantasy Sherlock looked like he was enjoying himself. He certainly didn't look like that now; his eyes were closed and he looked like he was enduring something unpleasant. Despite being shorter, John was still stronger than Sherlock and it was easy to push him an arm's length away. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

"Kissing you." Sherlock had opened his eyes, but the look on his face remained the same.

"I know that. Why are you doing this now? You've never wanted to do that before, and if you have you've never mentioned it."

"Don't you want it?"

"Only if you do as well. Kissing's not enjoyable for me unless the other person is enjoying it too." The fact he had to mention this to Sherlock was really the worst part.

Sherlock took several steps backward, like John's comment had burned him. "But I'm not normal!" he cried out. That statement, of all things, made John realize that he was drunk, and had deliberately gotten himself drunk. No other circumstance would make something like that come out. "I'm never going to enjoy it! Isn't it enough that I let you? I figured that with enough wine in me it wouldn't be so bad, but it's not! It would be worth it if it kept you here! I know you want sex, need sex, because you're not a freak like me. I can give that to you, I can kiss you, I can even just lie there and let you do whatever you want to me in bed, but you can't expect me to enjoy it and you can't expect me to want it, because I never will!"

Of all of the things John could think of that Sherlock might have said about the situation, that was not one of them. It was an admission that Sherlock wanted a romantic relationship, true, and a small part of him rejoiced at the idea. That small part, however, was accompanied by horror at both the idea that John would be okay with a partner enduring rather than enjoying sex and that Sherlock was willing to subject himself to such an arrangement. Shock must have showed on his face, because Sherlock paled and fled upstairs before John could formulate a response. He sat down on the sofa, suddenly feeling the need to get drunk himself.


	28. Chapter 28

John did not get drunk. He read a few chapters of a book and went to bed. He slept restlessly until early the next morning, when he crept downstairs only to be faced with Mrs. Hudson. She held up the morning's paper. K's picture was on the front, with the headline, "Is This A Bird of Prey?" in bold above it.

"This is about that case you two have been working on for weeks, isn't it?" she said matter-of-factly. Unable to speak, John just nodded. "He's not going to be happy when he sees this. I thought I'd better warn you." She clearly meant Sherlock. After several seconds of silence, she went on. "Has he told you much about what happened to him?"

"What are you talking about?" John decided to play dumb.

"Oh, don't do that. Sherlock didn't tell me anything, but I know, you know, and he knows. I've seen how he is with you and everyone else." She looked him right in the eye. "I might not know who did it, but someone like that woman made him not be able to trust anyone."

"How..." John couldn't make himself finish the sentence.

"Come downstairs. We'll have some breakfast and talk." Mrs. Hudson folded the paper under one arm and headed downstairs. John followed her. He wondered how long she had been up; there was water boiling for tea as well as scones and marmalade set out. "I'm an early bird, always have been," she told him. "You boys usually aren't up at this hour." She gestured towards a chair. "Sit down." He sat down and took a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson sat herself down in a chair opposite him. "Have you ever thought about how much trust a child has?"

"Some," John said, not clear what she was getting at.

"Remember when you were a child. Did you ever doubt that your parents would serve you meals? Did you ever doubt they'd give you clothes to wear? Did you ever think they would seriously hurt you? Did you ever doubt their love for you?"

"No. Well, no if you don't count some teenage conflict," John admitted.

"Think of what it would be like if you didn't have any of those things," she said evenly. She continued to look him in the eye. She must have caught some flicker of suspicion, so she added: "No, I'm not talking about myself. Sherlock's the one who didn't have those things, or at least some of them."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's how people like that woman -" here she gestured to the front page again - "work. Find a little one who doesn't have something they need and give it to them." She paused. "Unless it was his mother?"

"His mother?" It took John a second to realize what she meant. "No, his mother just didn't really care about him. It was her." He hadn't meant to add the last part, but he was looking at the picture of K and it slipped out.

"The exact same woman?" Mrs. Hudson didn't seem particularly surprised. "No wonder he's taking this so personally."

"You still haven't explained how you know all this, if Sherlock didn't tell you." John didn't want the conversation to be sidetracked.

"I've seen it before myself," she said flatly. "Do you know the story about how Sherlock and I met?"

"Your husband," John said. "I don't know more than that. Did you hire him?"

"Hire him? Oh no, he wasn't a detective back then." She laughed. "His brother had sent him to Florida, as soon as he got out of rehab. Thought if he was away from all the 'bad influences' he'd stay sober." John thought that that did sound like something Mycroft would do. "He was in the flat across the hall from where we were living. Edwin - my husband - had inherited some real estate in the area from a relative and we were staying there to sell it. He was from the States originally, you know. Poor Sherlock was climbing the walls with boredom after a day or two, and Edwin saw him pacing around at all hours. So I invited him over for some tea one day. Well, he laid out almost my whole life story before I'd finished one cup, and I thought he was more interesting than anyone else I'd met there."

"What led to the execution?" He wasn't sure whether she was deliberately avoiding the point or if she just felt all this information was needed.

"As I said before, Sherlock was bored silly for most of the time he was here. He took a look at the newspaper archives for the past year or so to see if he could solve any of the crimes. He found a string of murders, all of older, short, dark-haired women. The police weren't sure if they were connected because the cause of death was different in all the cases, but you know Sherlock. He found out all he could about them from the paper and from asking questions." She looked at K's picture again. "He turned over all the evidence to the police with a description of the killer. Two days later they knocked on my door and asked for Edwin. Sherlock knew about the arrest, but he went back to England before the trial started. The police thanked him and said without that evidence they'd have never found the killer. He was tried, sentenced, and executed. It was all fast because he never appealed."

"That's quite a story," John said, not knowing what else to say.

"Edwin's mother was short and dark-haired." Mrs. Hudson looked up at John to see if he got her meaning. "When I brought up having children, very early in our marriage, he said he didn't want any children as long as his mother was still alive. When she died, I was already fifty and past that point."

"How long were you married?"

"Twenty-five years. It wasn't like what you would expect, being married to a murderer. Edwin was never violent with me. I'd have almost called him timid. I was the only woman he'd ever courted." Once again she looked at the picture of K and John noticed the anger in her glance. "We lived in England for the most part. Edwin would visit relatives in Florida but he never wanted me to meet them. I didn't mind that; the one time I did meet his mother was enough. He never mentioned much about his childhood, said he couldn't remember most of it. Every now and then he'd tell me little things. My guess is that he did remember and just didn't want to tell me."

"What did you hear of those little things?"

"Nothing good. His father had been apparently committed to an institution shortly after Edwin was born. Once he mentioned that he hadn't slept in his own room once until he moved out."

John took a sudden deep breath. "He was... his mother..." He couldn't make himself finish the thought.

"I think so, yes. He had scars all over his back, chest, and legs. He said he didn't know how he'd got them. Sometimes he'd vanish for a few days and come back like nothing had happened. He'd always seem so haunted before he left. He never liked to be touched. We didn't make love all that often; he was rarely in the mood. Even with only those little things to go on you could figure it out. More came out when he was charged." She sounded sad. "The relatives I never met told all sorts of horror stories. And what happened to those women he killed. Rape, sadistic torture, murder..." She trailed off, as if overcome by emotion. "He said he didn't remember killing anyone. Strange choice of words, but I believed him."

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" John asked.

"Yes, I do. Edwin was the one who told me about Sherlock. He said: 'That boy was using drugs because they killed the pain,' and while he never said what the pain was I could figure it out. Even then he never went out with anyone, never made any friends, kept everything to himself. None of that would bother me, but he didn't seem happy with that. Just not able to reach for it." Mrs. Hudson looked up at the ceiling. "I think I just heard someone come down the stairs. One more thing, John. I know you're willing to help Sherlock fight those demons. Just make sure he does what he feels comfortable with, not what he's willing to do for you."

John nodded in response. Mrs. Hudson rarely called him by his first name, and the use of it combined with her well-spoken advice was a bit jarring. He headed upstairs. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, a blanket draped over his shoulders. His bee sat next to him. All of the curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Before saying anything, he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Coke. He noticed that there weren't any experiments in there and realized that Sherlock hadn't done a single experiment since this case had begun. That was enough to make him stop for a minute to compose himself. Only then did he reach into a cabinet, pull out a bottle of aspirin, and put two in his hand. He carried the can and pills over to where Sherlock was sitting and set them down on the table in front of him. "Take these with the Coke," he told him. "It'll rehydrate you and the caffeine in it will make the aspirin work faster."

"Did they teach you that in medical school?" Sherlock croaked out.

"Yes, in the after-hours student learning sessions." While Sherlock didn't laugh, he did smile. "Take the aspirin."

Sherlock opened the can and downed the pills with a large swallow of the soda. He rested his free arm on his bee. He looked exhausted and John wondered if he had slept at all that night. For a few minutes all he did was take large gulps out of the can. Once he was done he set the can down on the table, making a metallic clank. "I can't get the taste out of my mouth," he said.

"Did you throw up earlier this morning?" John asked.

"Not what I meant." He spoke so quietly John almost didn't hear him.

He had a feeling that he didn't want to know whatever Sherlock meant, so he changed the subject. "We need to talk about last night." Sherlock's eyes widened. "Please don't run. We need to talk," he quickly added.

Sherlock slumped a little and moved the bee to his lap. Seemingly unconsciously, he wrapped his arms around it and pulled it to his chest. "All right," he said in a childlike whisper.

John sat down on the sofa next to him, albeit leaving a space between the two of them. "First of all, don't think you have to get drunk to tell me anything. I promise that I won't get angry at anything you say." He was probably asking for trouble with a policy like that, but putting Sherlock at ease was more important. "Second - no, wait. Have you ever kissed someone before?" It seemed like a reasonable question, but as soon as it came out of his mouth Sherlock backed up against the arm of the sofa, clutching the bee even tighter. "I'm sorry," John quickly said. "Let me rephrase that. Have you ever kissed someone that wasn't her? In a romantic way?" He almost said "kissed someone because you wanted to" but was smart enough to realize that might have the same answer the first question did. Sherlock shook his head. John could still see fear in his eyes. "You know that relationships are about more than just physical affection, right?" he said.

"It's an important part."

"Not the most important, or my sister wouldn't be going through a divorce right now. Intimacy was never a problem for them." While John almost said "sex" instead of "intimacy" he thought that if he did use the word Sherlock would once again flee.

"Sometimes She'd say She didn't know why She let me come around. That I was terrible company and it was only because I was so good in bed." Sherlock looked John in the eye, as if he needed to make sure John understood what he was saying. "I - I'd beg Her to let me stay. I promised I'd try to do better and be more interesting."

Before John could think of something to say in response someone rapped shortly on the door. "I'll get it," he said hastily. As soon as he opened the door, he wished he hadn't. Mycroft was standing there, seemingly unchanged from the previous day.

"Ah, John. May I have a word with you?" He made it sound like they would be discussing the weather.

"Anything you can say to me you can say in front of Sherlock."

"Very well then," Mycroft responded as he stepped through the doorway.

"Get out of here now!" Sherlock leapt off the sofa and turned towards his brother, clearly furious. "I thought I made it clear you weren't wanted!"

"I'm not here to talk to you, I'm here to talk to John."

"I know that. I'm not deaf, I heard the two of you talking before."

Before the conversation could degrade into a shouting match, John cleared his throat. "You say you came here to talk to me. What do you want to say?"

Mycroft turned to look at him, and John realized he actually seemed nervous. "Even if this case goes to trial, there's still a very good chance that she will be found not guilty."

"I'm aware of that. What's your point?"

"It may be easier on all the involved parties if she is merely taken into custody by the government. No trial involved." He continued to look at John even as Sherlock shot daggers out his eyes at him.

"Sherlock wants a trial." Suddenly something clicked in John's brain. "Wait. You feel guilty, don't you? You thought the same as everyone else, that the person Sherlock was 'telling horrible lies' about was a man! You knew that he was close to that neighbor but never considered it could be her!"

That, of all things, was what made Mycroft look away from him. "Sherlock did say that she let him help after school in the clinic she worked at. He also said that he liked playing in her garden." He paused. "He told me he loved her. I thought he merely had a childhood crush."

"You never listened," Sherlock said. He was now sitting on the sofa again, one arm curled around his bee. From the way he spoke it was clear that he'd known how Mycroft felt for a long time.

"You never said anything negative about her." Mycroft's voice was heavy and John realized he was near tears. "And she left to get married before you rang me."

"No, She left because of what Mummy had told Her. Victor had spoken to Mummy before that." In stark contrast to his brother, Sherlock sounded flat and emotionless. "You know as well as I do that Craig was gay. He only married Her so he could get his inheritance. He told me that She said She wasn't interested in dating anyone anyway, so they might as well be together."

"I assumed she was in love with him anyway." Mycroft suddenly turned and headed for the door. "Forgive me. It's -" The rest of the sentence was cut off as he shut the door.

In the time it had taken Mycroft to leave, Sherlock's bee had wandered back to his lap. He folded himself around it before saying, "Can we not have more of that talk today?"

While John would have taken that as a diversionary tactic most of the time, Sherlock sounded so tired from his brief conversation with his brother that he decided that would be for the best. "All right." He sat down next to him on the sofa again. His hand brushed against the side of the bee. "Does it have a name?" he asked.

"Hamish."

John blinked. "My middle name?"

"Yes." At this point Sherlock was almost doubled over the stuffed toy. He repositioned himself so he was now on his side, still wrapped around the bee.

"Why?" John had to ask.

"He feels safe. Like you."


	29. Chapter 29

Even if Sherlock had been willing to talk, John wouldn't have been able to carry on his end of a conversation after hearing something like that. They spent the day in companionable silence, John watching crap telly and Sherlock alternating between pacing, playing the violin, and sitting on the sofa with Hamish the bee. Occasionally he would look at John like he was trying to tell him something, but he never said anything.

In fact, it was three days later before they were able to talk again. John had been busy at the clinic and Sherlock was taking an endless set of case notes on his laptop. When Lestrade contacted them to say the foster children were willing to be interviewed the next day, there was still no conversation, but John knew the silence would be broken the next day. Even then, the cab ride was silent.

Lestrade met them in front of the Yard, holding a sheaf of papers. "This is a complete list of the children K has fostered," he said by way of explanation, before leading them into the building. John couldn't help but notice that everyone, even the Yarders, seemed reluctant to call her anything but K. "We've been ringing them in bits and pieces. Unfortunately, none of the others have been willing to talk."

"Do you think they were victims?" John asked.

"Of course they were," Sherlock said as he grabbed the sheaf of papers and began flipping through them. "If they weren't they'd have been willing to make statements that She was nothing but kind to them." He continued to study them until they were in one of the interview rooms. "There are a lot of twins on this list. Two sets of triplets, even. How many triplet sets are taken into care each year? It can't be very many." From the way he was talking it was obvious that he'd drawn some sort of conclusion. John wasn't sure if Lestrade had noticed it, and he knew better than to ask.

"They should be here in a couple of minutes," Lestrade said. He put a tape recorder on the table and then went to sit in a corner.

"What are their names?" John asked.

"Spencer is the family name. The boys are Dominic, Graham, and Martin. The girl is Christine."

Right after Lestrade spoke there was a knock on the door. He stood to open it. Five young adults stood there, four clearly related; they all had the same dark blond hair, light brown eyes, and lean build. The fifth was a woman holding an infant. "Sorry, we couldn't find a sitter in time," she said in apology as they all stepped into the room. Her dark hair, almond-colored skin, and high, flat cheekbones were in sharp contrast to the other four. "I can wait out in the hall if you like. I'm Gloria Yellowfox, Graham's fiancee." Even her accent was different, distinctly American.

"Congratulations," John said. He could easily tell who Graham was. He seemed far more put together than the others. While his hair was long, it was neatly combed and shiny. His hooded sweatshirt and jeans were worn but clean and well taken care of. Most of all, he was the only one besides Gloria to be smiling. "Do you have a wedding date?"

"Not quite yet," Graham said. He took a seat. "Is Gloria allowed to be in here? If not, is there a place she can wait with Angus?" John assumed Angus was the infant in her arms. He was almond-colored like his mother, but had faint wisps of blond hair on his head.

"She can stay if the others agree to it," Lestrade said.

"No," the other three said in unison.

Graham nodded, like he wasn't surprised. "Is there a place she can wait?"

"There's a room down the hall. It's got chairs and a vending machine," Lestrade told him.

"I'll wait there then," Gloria said, and smiled in Graham's direction before vanishing down the hall. Only then did the other three sit down, the two other men on each side of their brother and the woman to the left of all of them.

Unlike their brother, they gave the distinct impression of living rough. The one woman, Christine, was at least somewhat put together; her blouse and skirt had clearly been worn for a few days, but her hair was combed and she looked as if she had recently bathed. The man who sat to the left of Graham wore an ancient blue jumper that covered several other shirts and jeans that were too big for him, even with the legs turned up and a belt tightened as far as it could go. His hair was short but crudely cut, like he had taken scissors or a knife to it himself, and his skin bore several weeks worth of dirt. He slumped so far in the chair as to be lying on it with his legs angled to the ground. The man to the right of Graham had wrapped himself into a long coat and scarf. He wore gloves and had a ski cap clutched in his hands. His hair was long, tangled, and matted.

Sherlock sat at the other side of the table with John. He had put down the papers when they had first come in, and now he looked right at the family. "Hello," he said gently. "I understand that this is difficult for you. However, right now there are children still around your foster mother. They need your help now."

Even Graham was no longer smiling. "Christine first," said the man in the long coat. "She's the oldest."

Christine looked briefly at each of her brothers before speaking. "You know, our dad loved us, even if he could be a right tosser when he was drunk. When Mum died he just went off the bend. Didn't never hit us before then. And we were just normal kids, really, but he wanted to follow her to the grave. I talked back a lot and in our last row he slapped my face and I fell. It wasn't much really but when one of the workers came to our house and saw what a mess it was she took us all into care." She spoke with the raspy tone of the heavy cigarette smoker. "Went to this house full of other kids. First they said they'd split us up, no one'd take all four at once. Then they said they found a place for all of us. When we got there I thought we did pretty good. Big house, lots of stuff to do, big garden. And when we met Her She seemed nice enough." John wondered to himself if there was anyone K had victimized that didn't speak of her with capital letters. "Right off She said we could call Her Mum. I still missed my real Mum a lot and I jumped right on that."

"When did things change?" Sherlock asked.

"Our Mum wasn't much for a cuddle. She was good to us but she didn't touch us a lot. So when someone tells you to call Her Mum and wants to have a cuddle with you it seems good." She paused, glanced at her brothers, and began again. "I was twelve then. Not much different than other girls. Boy crazy." She looked down at her hands. "Anyway, She'd ask me about school every day and then two weeks in She asked if I'd kissed any boys yet. Told Her I hadn't, and that was true. Asked me then if I fancied any boys yet. Course I did, seemed like that was all the other girls talked about. So then She said when She was my age She'd kiss a pillow and pretend it was a boy. And I said that isn't much like a person, and She asks me if I'd ever practiced. I said no, and She said that when She was in school the girls all practiced with each other. I knew some girls that did and said that. So She leans over and kisses me. On the lips, but not hard. Asked me then if I liked it, and I said I did, because it wasn't bad really. So I said it wasn't bad, kind of tingly. Then I said that the shagging part was the one that sounded bad. Couldn't see why anyone would like getting something like that stuck in you. So She said that I just didn't know what the good part was like, and did I want to see. And I did because I wonder why people seem to like that and we go up to Her room. Then She tells me to take off my skirt and knickers and lie down." There was a lengthy pause.

"Go on," Sherlock said quietly.

"Then She wanks me off, except I didn't know it was that then. And it did feel good. Before that I'd dream about some boy and wake up feeling like something good was about to happen. And I thought this was what was going to happen. I knew it wasn't supposed to happen, but you know. It felt really good. Figured if I didn't say anything it might happen again. After that I asked Her if we could do that again and She said of course, if I wanted to so much." Her voice seemed close to breaking.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "I know you have more to say but I want to hear your from your brothers first."

"That'd be me, then. I'm next oldest," said the man in the jumper. "Mum and Dad told me a few times 'Dominic, you're going to have to look out for your brothers,' since I came first. When we got moved to care I tried to make sure they would be okay. Let them get served supper first and let them say whether we play football or rugby." He looked over at his sister. "And like Christine said, our mum wasn't much for a cuddle and I liked that She was always up for it. I don't really remember when it was except that Graham and Martin were outside and Christina was out with some of her mates. I had a cough and She told me it was better to stay inside. In Her room was the telly, a big one. Any time you wanted to watch a movie you'd go in there. When I was in the middle of some film She comes in and asks if She can watch with me. Since everyone else was out I said yes, because I was alone. At first She sat right next to me but near the end She asks if I would mind sitting in Her lap. I didn't, really, and told Her that was good. For a few minutes it was all right, then She puts Her hand on the waistband of my trousers. I knew it was there but didn't really think about it. Then after another few minutes Her hand's on my leg, rubbing in circles. It was. I don't know. Strange. But I got used to it. Then She moved Her hand again." He fell silent. "Now it was right in front of the zipper of my trousers. This time when She started making circles it felt better." A pause. "Then when the film was over She left like nothing had happened. That was the first time." He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead looked down at his hands, just like his sister.

"I'm next if we're going by age," Graham said. He clearly wanted to sound strong, but his voice wavered. "You already know what it was like at first. I thought living with Her was going to be all right. Until one day. There was a big bookcase in Her room with all sorts of books and magazines. The other day She had gotten me a football magazine and I couldn't find it, so I went to see if it was in Her room. I couldn't find it and was about to look someplace else when one magazine fell on the floor. I picked it up to put it back on the shelf and then I saw it was a girlie magazine. I'd seen them before but hadn't looked at one close up. When I'd gone through a few pages She came in the room and asked me if I was having fun. I figured She'd get mad at me but She said that I was just interested like everyone else. Then She asked if I'd seen anyone naked like that in real life. I said my sister and brothers and my dad. She said anyone besides my family and I said no. Then She asked if I wanted to see someone else. I said yes before I could think about what I was saying and the next thing I knew She had taken Her blouse off. There wasn't - She didn't have a bra on. I couldn't help but look, and I really hadn't seen something like that before." As he spoke, his face turned red. "I just looked, and She said I could look all I wanted. After a few minutes She put her blouse back on - She never took off her skirt - and left the room with the magazine. I went downstairs then and found the football magazine on the couch. For a while I couldn't stop thinking about how I'd done something wrong, even though I didn't know what it was."

Graham must have given some sort of indication he was through speaking, because the man to the right of him said, "Guess it's my turn now." He ran a hand over his matted hair. "Dominic and Graham used to tease me some because I was the youngest. 'Martin's the baby,' they'd say, like I was years younger than them. But they didn't mean anything bad by it." He quickly glanced over at his brothers before speaking again. "Right away She said I was special because I was the youngest. I liked that. She said She'd been the youngest, too. A few weeks after we moved into Her house I got the cough Dominic had except it was worse. I was in hospital for a long time after I was born and I had problems with my lungs. So I stayed home from school with Her. She had said She worked at a place in London but She said She'd stay home with me that day. Said that us youngest had to stick together, and She could take care of me. I even got to spend the day in Her bed. I thought I'd finally have the telly to myself but I fell asleep again after the others went to school. When I woke up She was lying in bed with me. Said that She just wanted a rest. She put Her hand on my forehead and asked if my head hurt. It did and I said it did, so She started rubbing the top of it. She asked if I felt better and I said I did, even though it was the same. I just liked Her hand on me. Then She asked me if my stomach ached, and that did too, so I told Her that, and She rubbed circles on my belly. It felt nice even if my stomach still hurt. After a bit I was half-asleep and She was still rubbing. Then She went lower. I kept my eyes shut. I didn't want Her to leave or stop touching me, even if it felt weird. I must have fallen asleep for real at some point because the next thing I remember is waking up alone." He shut his eyes.

"I suppose you need to know what happened after that," Christine said as soon as her brother stopped talking. "Can – can we do that at another time? This is enough. Now, I mean." Her body shook along with her voice.

"No," Graham said firmly. "Right now, I need to say the worst bit. Before I lose my nerve." Christina looked back at him in confusion but both of his brothers paled further and Martin put the ski cap that he was holding in his hands on his head again. "Because, you know, I didn't tell anyone about what happened until Angus was born. Then I said something to Gloria and she said 'You know that's sexual abuse, right?' I told her, 'No,' and we talked all night about it. A few days later, when Angus came home from hospital, Christine, Dominic, and Martin came to our flat to meet him. All four of us talked by ourselves. Cause you know, we all thought we were the only one that She had been interested in and that the others were okay. I hadn't even told the rehab counselors about it. Before they came over I had thought I'd apologize to Dominic and Martin. But they wanted to apologize to me, too. The three of us hugged and we cried. None of us had to say anything because we all knew what we meant by apologize."

Sherlock had sat there silently for so long John looked over in surprise when he asked Graham, "What do you mean by apologize to Dominic and Martin?"

"I thought if I was the only one it'd be okay. Like, if it was happening to them it'd be bad but it was different if it was me. It wasn't all bad, really, but it felt dirty. I didn't want them to feel like that." Graham visibly swallowed. He looked anguished. "Sometimes when I wouldn't do something fast enough or I looked like I didn't want to do it She'd ask me if one of my brothers might be more willing. Of course I'd promise to try harder. But once She said I hadn't done enough. Said that if I didn't want to go to a new carer I'd have to do something for Her. And I didn't want that. Nothing that She wanted me to do would be as bad as not being with Dominic and Martin. They're my best friends. So I said yes, I'd do whatever it was. Then She told me the plan. It was…" His voice trailed off, and he took several deep breaths before speaking again. "A few days later I did it. I brought Martin up to Her room and said we were going to watch football. We did watch it for a bit and then Martin asked me if I'd seen that magazine I saw before. I was supposed to show it to him but I couldn't figure out how to so I was glad he asked. We both looked at it and near the end there was this one picture where a man and a woman were both. Um. Sucking on each other." Graham's face was now a steadily deepening shade of red. "I said what I was supposed to, which was that I wondered how it felt. I already knew how it did but I couldn't tell Martin that. Martin said he thought people must like it because in the magazine there were a lot of pictures with it, even though that was the only one with both at the same time." Another pause. Graham next spoke so rapidly it took a second before John realized what he had said. "And-then-we-kept-talking-and-I-said-I-could-try-to-show-him-how-it-felt-and-then-I-put-my-mouth-on-him-and-when-I-was-done-I-said-it-was-my-turn-and-he-put-his-mouth-on-me-and-then-when-he-was-doing-it-something-actually-came-out-and-then-I-left-the-room-and-hoped-he-wouldn't-hate-me-forever-because-I'd-done-it-the-way-She-said-and-I-love-him-so-much-even-if-he-did-hate-me-because-I-was-a-disgusting-pervert-he's-my-little-brother-and-I'd-do-anything-to-keep-him-safe." This appeared to be the final straw for Graham; he buried his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

His three siblings rose to their feet. They closed in on him and even while he was still seated they managed to form a group hug. Christine and Dominic returned to their seats after a minute or two, but Martin stayed standing, a hand on his brother's shoulder. "What he didn't know was that She'd told me to do something too. If I didn't want him to get the same thing I was supposed to show him the magazine and get him to, well, like She said 'suck your cock' when She told me and I was supposed to do anything to make him do it. I was glad I didn't have to hold a knife against him or something but then I thought whatever I'd done with Her had made me so bad it even spread to my brother. It happened a bunch of times. Not just with Graham, but Dominic too. Graham and Dominic had to do the same things too. Even after we left Her house I couldn't make myself spend time with them, because I knew they hated me for making them have sex with me."

"But we all thought that," Dominic said quietly. "She told each one of us that we had to do it and when we talked it was when we realized it was because of Her and not because we were so bad. It would have been bad with Christine, but when it's one of the brothers that looks like you and acts like you it's so much worse."

"It sounds so scripted," John said. It reminded him of terrible porno films, if you ignored the fact it was acted by two ten year old boys.

"I know She had a camera in her room," Christine said. "I'd have to do things to myself and She would record them. Said that either I'd do it when I knew the camera was there or She'd hide it in Her room and I'd never know when it was recording. But She never made me do anything to my brothers."

"I think you've told us enough for today." Sherlock both looked and sounded carefully neutral. Lestrade had spent most of the time when Graham relayed his terrible story with an expression of shock on his face. John himself had to bite back tears and still had a lump in his throat. It occurred to him that Sherlock's neutral expression was his own way of biting back all emotion.

"If we need to talk to you again, I'll ring Graham and he can get all of you," Lestrade said as the four siblings filed out the door in a great hurry. Graham looked back and half-nodded before he vanished out the door.

Once he seemed sure that the whole family had left, Sherlock spoke again, still sounding neutral. "That is why She's fostered so many twins, then. The incest taboo is something those children are no doubt aware of. While it would easily be possible to get any set of siblings to do so under the threat they will be separated if they do not, since they are aware that after coming into care their siblings are all the family they have left, twins and other multiple birth children are even more vulnerable because of their tendency to a closer relationship than ordinary siblings and even stronger desire to not be separated from others. That close relationship is also what prevents them from speaking about what has occurred. If both are unaware the other is also following a script and both truly believe they have forced their sibling into sexual activity, they fear being arrested for such as well as losing that sibling's love. Finally the incest taboo is even stronger amongst them, and is the most effective deterrent against speaking She has." His neutral look faded into a questioning one. "I could have given them my number. It would be easier for when I speak with them again."

"About that," Lestrade said slowly. He got up from where he was sitting and stood so he did not face Sherlock or John. "The higher-ups have said that you can't work on this case anymore." He looked briefly at both of them as if expecting some sort of explosion, but there was none. Sherlock looked at him as if he'd started speaking a foreign language, but that was all. "Not that you've been in any way subpar; without your help we'd have never cracked the case. It's just that if no one ever talked about all this without speaking to you there'd be a good chance her solicitors would use it against us, and no one wants to see this case go wrong. Any other interviews are going to be done by different Yarders. Normally we have a female officer interview children who have been abused, but in this case…" He turned once again to face them. "It's the policy, you know. It never occurred to me it would be a problem until now."

"Are you finished?" Sherlock asked him. He sounded like he'd been made to sit through a particularly dull lecture rather than being taken off the case. Lestrade nodded, unable to speak. "We should be going, then." Sherlock directed John out the door, not saying anything, not exploding with anger, not seeming to react at all.

The cab ride back to Baker Street had to be one of the most uncomfortable John had ever experienced. Sherlock might as well have been a mannequin with a head that moved. Even when they reached the safety of home, he merely sat down on the sofa and stared. He wasn't sulking, he wasn't lost in thought, he was just blank. This unnerved John so much that he retreated to his room, not wanting to do anything about it other than hope it would go away. Before the case it wasn't something he would have ever done, but this had sapped so much of his energy. A thought occurred to him: if this case drained him so much, how must Sherlock feel? He banished it quickly as it came.

Later that night, he awoke to a cry. It wasn't precisely a scream, but a quieter wordless expression of distress. At first he wondered if he had dreamed it, but when it was quickly followed by another John jumped out of bed and raced downstairs. Sherlock had left his door open and he was thrashing about in his bed. "Sherlock?" John asked as he stepped into the room, the light from the hall enabling him to see inside.

"No," he replied, still asleep. Sherlock sounded desperate, even though his voice wasn't any louder than it was normally.

"Sherlock?" John said again, wondering if he should shake him awake or not. He came to stand beside the bed and put a hand on the mattress.

"No." He opened his eyes but they did not focus. Instead they stared blindly into the distance.

"You're having a nightmare," John heard himself say.

Sherlock rose into a sitting position. "No, no, no, no no. I don't. I swear to you I don't. Never." He sounded like he was begging. "I promise I don't want to."

"Sherlock, it's John. You're in your room at Baker Street and you're having a nightmare," he said again, although he was beginning to doubt this was just a nightmare. It was beginning to trigger unpleasant feelings of recognition.

He turned so his eyes were on John, but still there was no focus. "Yes, I know, I'm sorry. No no no no no! I wasn't dreaming about him! It was you!"

"No one's here but me. You're in your own bed. You're safe. Please wake up." John wondered if putting a hand on his shoulder would make things better or worse.

"Yes." Sherlock suddenly sounded robotic. "Always. I'm just a sexual psychopath. Fuck me. Sorry, please fuck me. No, I mean Mummy, please fuck me. Yes, I will. Of course I'll tell you. I always tell you. That only happened once. I'm sorry. I know. I love you too."

_This isn't a nightmare_, John suddenly realized. _This is a flashback. _ Suddenly very glad he hadn't put a hand on him, he started to move closer to the bed and his foot met a ball of fluff. He reached down and picked up Hamish from the floor. Hoping it would work, he dropped the stuffed toy in Sherlock's lap.

Whether it was entirely from that John didn't know, but Sherlock blinked a few times and seemed to finally see what was in front of him. "John?" he said slowly.

"It's me. You were having a nightmare," he carefully replied.

"It's - it was - oh God." Even in the weak light he visibly flushed. "Go. No. Not again."

"I'm not leaving," John said. He took a guess as to what Sherlock meant and added, "Are you going to slash up your bed sheets again?"

"I - no." He pulled Hamish to his chest. "Please. Go. I don't want you to see this."

"Like I said to Phillip before, it's not like this isn't something I've ever experienced."

"Yes, it's perfectly normal to climax from repeated erotic dreams involving someone who's supposed to have been hurting you." Sherlock didn't sound sarcastic, just sad. "I'm such a pervert," he said after a moment.

John then laid a hand on his shoulder. "No, you're not." There was an awkward silence.

"Stay." Sherlock looked as surprised he said it as John felt hearing it. "Just for tonight, please."

"Right here in your room?" John asked for clarification.

"Yes. You... know about nightmares." He looked away.

"In your bed?" It was big enough to hold two people even if they never touched, but Sherlock might consider that a step too far.

"If I can take off the sheets first."

"That's fine," John said, and turned his back.

He kept his back turned until Sherlock said quietly: "You can turn around." He was wearing pajamas, long ones John had never seen before, and the mattress was bare. The sheets were piled on the floor. "You first," he said, and John lay down on the side. Sherlock climbed into bed as well and lay down close enough that their heads were touching but so Hamish was close enough to his chest that their lower bodies couldn't easily touch. He pulled the blankets over himself and said, "Good night, John." While he had planned to stay awake until Sherlock fell asleep, the truth was he fell asleep shortly after climbing into bed and never found out if on that night Sherlock slept at all.


	30. Chapter 30

That night was an eye-opener in many ways. John had always mentally referred to the effects of K as Sherlock's Issues. (Even then he almost laughed at how K had wound up making him use capital letters anyway.) Somehow, despite the damage he'd seen inflicted upon Sherlock, he continued to believe it would all sort itself out. When he woke up that morning alone in Sherlock's bed, however, he knew that was no longer the case. Sherlock needed some form of professional help. He thought about this as he showered, got dressed, and went downstairs to make breakfast. The big problem was that Sherlock would never admit he needed professional help. Even if he was made to go see some sort of therapist, he would likely be as obnoxious as possible so the therapist would refuse to see him again, or sit silently and stare at whoever was there. Whenever he revealed something to John he'd retreat afterward. True to form, he was nowhere to be found in the flat now. And truthfully, John felt like he needed help as well. So, he picked up his mobile and dialed one number he had hoped never to dial again.

"Ella? This is John Watson. When is the soonest I can see you?"

Whether it was that she had a cancelation or that she was so alarmed at John willingly planning to see her he didn't know, but she could get him an appointment later that afternoon. Now he was sitting on the Tube trying to not think about the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. _It's for Sherlock,_ he told himself. _It doesn't matter what you think of it. Sherlock needs help._ While that didn't make the feeling go away, it was enough to calm his nerves until he got to his stop.

When he walked into the familiar office, he saw it was unchanged from before. That strangely comforted him; it was nice to see that some things didn't change. "Dr. Watson?" his former therapist said as she came into the room. "What brings you here?" They walked into the other room, Ella giving him a look that clearly said: _You're here for something serious. Get to the point._

Before he even could sit down, he said: "Is all the PTSD you treat a result of combat situations?"

"Why are you asking?" she responded without blinking.

"A friend." He sat down in the nearest chair.

"Now, most of the time when someone says that they mean themselves. But one thing I know about you is that you're honest. You might not answer, or you might give one-word answers, but you don't lie. So I'll assume you really mean a friend." She sat down across from him. "And yes, that's my area of treatment. What happened to your friend to make you think they have PTSD?"

"Sexual abuse." Only as he said it did he realize he'd never uttered the words in connection with Sherlock before. Even now their power seemed overwhelming. They echoed in the air without the ease of euphemism. _Sexual abuse._

Ella didn't seem particularly surprised by what he'd said. "I can't say I've never treated a patient who's suffered from it, but it is certainly not my area of expertise. How did you find out about this?"

He almost said, "A case," before stopping and reminding himself that he wasn't going to reveal Sherlock's identity to anyone he saw. "He told me," he finally replied, truthfully.

"Why do you think he has PTSD, then?"

"Nightmares." Another word that echoed in the air.

"Other symptoms?" She was still relaxed, much calmer than him. John supposed she had to be.

"I saw him have a flashback. He was talking to me but didn't seem to know I was really there. I think he thought I was -" here John almost said K before realizing that she would have no idea who K was - "his abuser." He thought of something else. "Intimacy issues, too. He freezes at contact."

"You do understand that I can't treat your friend through you. He'd have to come in to see someone himself," she said evenly.

"He'd never see a therapist, though. He - he can't really talk about it even to me, and I'm his only friend." As he said this he hoped Ella didn't follow his life too closely now, or she'd know who he was talking about. "He's told me little bits but not really anything of substance."

"From what you're saying it sounds like he does indeed have some sort of trauma-related issue." She paused and looked him in the eye. "What have you learned from those 'little bits?' What happened and for how long?"

"It was a neighbor of his," John said slowly, not relishing the idea of revealing more. "She let him play in her garden and... Well, for the next ten years she'd..." He unsuccessfully choked back a sob.

"I ask because some professionals say that even one instance of sexual abuse in childhood is enough to require treatment while others say treatment is only needed for more prolonged abuse." She didn't seem to be afraid of the ominous-sounding phrase "sexual abuse" like he was. "But I think any professional would agree that ten years of abuse with corresponding PTSD needs to be treated."

"He won't talk. I'm not sure it's really a 'won't' though. He's too ashamed, more like."

"Not uncommon as a result of prolonged abuse. It's easier to accept that somehow one's badness makes those things happen rather than the more frightening truth that there's no reason for it. I assume the family situation was bad as well?" John couldn't make himself respond to that, so she continued on. "Predators know very well the children from the most neglectful or abusive families are the best targets."

"He..." John swallowed the lump in his throat. "He's said he'd choose her over anyone else. He'd live with her forever if he could. That he wished he was still a child so she'd still want him around." Until he actually said those words, he had no idea how much it had hurt to carry them around. Being the only one who knew something like that cut to the bone.

"You sound like you need someone to talk to almost as much as he does." She was still calm.

"I do," he said, because she was right and he didn't want to lie to her.

"You do understand that when he says that he's not expressing a desire for the sex. If his family was emotionally neglectful and he had no other friends, that relationship is literally the most significant he's ever had. He has to imagine that it was based on some real love instead of this woman's sexual appetite. Otherwise that relationship is meaningless."

"He thinks it's about the sex. He's told me that he orgasmed when they were having sex."

Before John could say any more, she interrupted him. "Don't call it 'having sex.' That trivializes it. 'When she was abusing him sexually' is more accurate."

She was right, and he knew it. He nodded to show he understood, and continues. "Anyway, he's also told me that he masturbates thinking of her abusing him. I don't know if this was in the past or not, but recently he's had wet dreams about her, including the nightmare with the flashback I saw. He's thrown out piles of bedsheets from it. Once he even slashed them up with a knife."

"It's still not about the sex. The sexual thoughts and desires he does have are through the distorted lens she's given him. The fact that their relationship is such an important thing to him makes him think that."

"I know that."

"You just can't convince him of it, can you?"

"No. I try to explain it but he just looks at me and keeps repeating the same things." John swallowed down the new lump in his throat. He hoped he wouldn't start crying. While he was sure Ella had probably dealt with crying patients before, it still seemed worse than even the time he'd cried in front of Sherlock.

"He's not reasoning. It's impossible to reason someone out of something you didn't reason yourself into. Also, if he makes himself accept that this wasn't a relationship in any real way, he has to accept he wasn't loved. Would you want to realize something like that?"

"No." He hadn't always had the best relationship with his parents (he and his mother had once gotten into a screaming fight over a lamp in his room and the next day had both admitted that it was a silly row), but he'd known that they cared. When his mother had a heart attack shortly after he was first deployed, he'd dropped everything to race home. John knew he was lucky to have sat with her for her last few hours; lots of other people weren't that fortunate. He'd cried off and on for days when his father died of cancer shortly before he'd left for university. The few times he'd met with Harry since he'd come back from Afghanistan they'd both been able to fondly reminisce about their childhood. True, it had always ended with a shouting match, but he was sure that she had felt loved as well.

Ella stood and walked over to her desk. She took a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled something on it. She turned and presented John with it. "Here are the names and numbers of a few therapists I know that deal with the aftermath of childhood abuse. Even if your friend won't talk to them, you can find someone to talk to. For his sake, I've only listed male therapists."

"Thank you," John said as he took the paper, folded it, and put it into his pocket. "You've been a great help."

He was almost out the door before she spoke again. "One more thing. Even if your flatmate won't talk to a therapist, at least be willing to listen to him if he ever tries to talk to you about the abuse. Breaking the silence is usually the hardest part." He flushed - of course she'd known he was talking about Sherlock the whole time - but nodded in understanding before leaving.

He half-hoped Sherlock wouldn't be there when he got back, and half-hoped he would. Delaying talking to him wouldn't solve anything, but he wasn't sure if he was up for it. This all vanished in a puff of smoke as he walked in the door and found Sherlock sitting on the sofa. He had wrapped himself in that blue dressing gown of his, the sides enveloping his body as tightly as possible, and Hamish sat next to him. When John shut the door, he turned his head and said, "You're home."

"Yes, I am," John replied, and left it at that.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock sounded like he was just trying to fill the empty air.

"Talking to Ella."

"I thought you weren't seeing her anymore?"

"Circumstances."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You were talking to her about me."

"I didn't mention who it was, but yes." He didn't bother to mention she'd figured it out anyway; this was hard enough on Sherlock. "I wanted to see what I could do to help you. And - it hurts hearing all this from you. I needed to talk to someone about it."

"Are you going back?" He looked frenzied; his hair was tousled and his eyes were wild.

"Not to her, no. She did give me a few names if I wanted to talk to someone else." John paused before adding: "I'm not going to make you go see anyone. I know you wouldn't talk anyway. This is just for me."

Sherlock's whole body sags, releasing tension John hadn't even noticed he had. He wraps an arm around Hamish and looks away from John. "Last night. It was good of you."

"Nightmares are always easier when someone else is around. In hospital, right after I was shot, they didn't seem so bad because I was never alone. It was harder when I was back in London." John had always been grateful that Sherlock didn't question him endlessly about his time in battle. Before he'd left there'd always been people who wanted to hear gruesome medical stories, so he'd heard the questions before, but it didn't make it easier. Strangely enough, Sherlock's silence on the subject made it easier to talk about it with him.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to do it again?"

That was not something John had been expecting to hear. "If you want me to, I will."

"Do you want to do it?" Sherlock still didn't face him.

"I'm fine with it either way. What do you want?"

"It'd be fine. Okay. Yes." Each word sounded like they had been spoken with difficulty.

"That settles it, then." Knowing Sherlock was uncomfortable with the intimacy of the moment, he changed the subject. "I'm going to start supper soon. Tea before then?"


	31. Chapter 31

"Just trying to bring you up to date before next week," Lestrade said as he put piles of paper in front of John and Sherlock. "We've got to be very careful, make sure all the Is are dotted and the Ts crossed. Also, Moira Aherne and her family are going to stop by. She's got some anxiety about the trial and it'd be best to have someone she trusts tell her the details."

"Where's the witness list?" Sherlock asked as he scanned one of the documents.

"Not releasing it to anyone other than the solicitors for the defense. They'd probably object to anything else. There's a list of the victims that will be testifying, though." He took another piece of paper and handed it over to Sherlock.

It had been four months since K had been first arrested. Next week was the start of the trial. John couldn't help but think of it in the same capital letters he used for Sherlock's Issues. The Trial. They were meeting with Lestrade so late that the sun was setting, and in the middle of summer to boot. John welcomed the privacy the time gave them. "I'm not going to testify, am I?" he asked.

"No. You're on the witness list but you aren't going to be called. You wouldn't offer any testimony that wouldn't be duplicated by other victims or witnesses."

"Why am I listed as Victim Three? None of the charges involve me. Statute of limitations and all that." While Sherlock clearly meant to sound angry, his shame crept into his voice. He laid down the paper he was holding and John noticed it listed Victims One to Fifteen, with their real names in parenthesis by the side. He couldn't make out any of the names.

"You're listed as both victim and witness. Any witness not related to the victims can be identified in the press. Any victim is protected by a court order and can only be referred to by number in the press or related documents. You are currently covered because your testimony will establish a pattern of behavior. Unless you want that restriction to be removed?" Lestrade looked Sherlock directly in the eye. After a few seconds, Sherlock broke eye contact and looked once again at the paper on the desk.

"No," he muttered, moving his arm so the list was now clearly visible.

John took a look at it himself. Victim One was Phillip Rodgers, Victim Two was Moira Aherne, Victim Three was Sherlock... He did a double take for Victim Four. "Wait. Is Jennifer Ogbeide -Bena going to testify at all? She's so young."

"Probably, yes. You obviously don't know all that's happened in the last couple of months. In her case her father called us to say she had identified K as the perpetrator from the evening news. Also, her mother's agreed to help us."

"Her mother?" John stared at him in disbelief. "If she's really testifying that she sold her daughter for drug money she'll be charged and will probably lose whatever parental rights she's got left."

"Yes, she has," Lestrade calmly replied. "She's said she wants to make amends."

"Detox program in prison got to her?" John was aware how those programs worked.

"That is the case. She'll be sentenced after this is all done; she's admitting she's guilty. Easy for a change."

Sherlock was still looking at the victim list. "Victim Five is Sagnik Malakar. Did his family contact you or did you incompetents manage to find him on your own?"

"The family contacted us. Like Jennifer, he saw K on the news one night and told his parents that was the one who hurt him. His English is quite good now, thankfully." Lestrade had obviously noticed that Sherlock was still refusing to look him in the eye, and had kept his gaze on John or the paper in front of them. The three of them silently scanned the document. Victim Six was Christine Spencer, Victim Seven was Dominic Spencer, Victim Eight was Graham Spencer, Victim Nine Martin Spencer.

"Who's Thomas Davidson?" John asked, reading the name of Victim Ten.

"He's one of the children who was treated at the homeless clinic she worked at. Once he found out she'd been arrested he disclosed to his parents. He's got curly brown hair and different-colored eyes - one's brown and one's blue." He tapped his fingers on the table unconsciously.

"I would hope you weren't so foolish as to try to observe that protocol of having a female officer interview them this time," Sherlock dryly remarked.

"No. I am capable of learning from my mistakes," Lestrade retorted.

"Has that protocol actually been changed at this point?" From Sherlock's tone it was obvious that he didn't think so.

"Not yet." Lestrade looked down at his lap. "There's... resistance to changing the policy. Some have said that the vast majority of children will feel better with a female officer, regardless."

"Why don't you just ask them?"

"Ask the child?" Lestrade sounded like he thought it couldn't be that simple.

"Of course. You are aware that most children are capable of expressing such a preference?" At that moment Sherlock looked just like the person he had been before this case came to dominate their lives, and John was grateful for it. Then Sherlock looked down at the paper again and gritted his teeth. "Victim Eleven is Alla Pinyakova?"

Lestrade's face reddened. "Yes. I suppose we should have told you."

"Who's Alla Pinyakova?" John hadn't heard the name before and didn't know why Sherlock would know her.

"Small Russian girl, long blonde hair. She's been a part of my homeless network for the past year or two. Doesn't speak much English." His words were tinged with fury.

"From what little we know, she came to the UK as a refugee of some kind. No other family. Taken into care and bounced around a lot, so we're not sure when she was in K's care."

"She's been on the streets since she was eleven." Sherlock looked like he could say a lot more, but didn't.

"I'm aware of that," Lestrade said. "She just walked into the Yard a few months ago and started to talk. We got a translator and she said her piece. There was a missing report filed on her a while back, which we closed." He paused. "You won't know any of the other victims' names, since all of them were interviewed after the two of you were taken off."

John could tell that this was going to go bad very quickly, so he jumped in. "Victim Twelve. James Warren. Tell us about him."

"He's only just sixteen. Rent boy. Been on the streets for God knows how long. He got brought in for solicitation and he said if we'd let him go he'd talk to us about K. He'd seen the headlines. Apparently he had her for a customer for a few years, from ten to thirteen." Lestrade has returned to a more businesslike tone. "He was still living at home for some of that time. Alcohol and drugs galore, and lots of neglect. A bunch of addicts in the same house and he wasn't ever sure who his father was. He said running away was the best thing he ever did. I believe him. No missing report was ever filed for him."

"Doesn't sound familiar," Sherlock said with visible relief.

"Ginger boy with a lot of freckles? Brown eyes? Not very tall and has a stutter?" Lestrade asked, obviously wanting him to be a stranger as well.

"Haven't seen or met anyone with that description." He was now able to look Lestrade directly in the eye.

"Who's Victim Thirteen?" John asked. The sooner all of them were kept up to date the sooner they could go back home. Even meeting with Moira would be less taxing.

"Jordan Ping Yu. Ginger too, but he's also part Chinese. Big hazel eyes. His story's a little like Moira Aherne's. Moved here from the States. His mother's out of the picture and dad works a lot. He went to Bart's about ten years ago for a physical shortly after they entered the country, and I think you can guess who the doctor was. He told us they 'had a relationship' - his words, not mine - until he and his father moved to Hong Kong two years later. He's nineteen now, and he came here to visit a relative of his father's two months ago. Saw some of the media coverage of the case and rang us the same day." Lestrade sounded a lot less hassled relating Jordan's story. No doubt this was because he was another stranger to all of them. "Victims Fourteen and Fifteen are siblings, Omowunmi and Isiaka Ehiwenma."

"Twins, I take it," Sherlock said, not asking a question but rather stating a fact. "They're from Nigeria?"

"Yes on both counts," Lestrade responded. "Isiaka is male and Omowunmi is female."

"When did She foster them?"

"Five years ago, for a little over a year. They were the last children she'd fostered, incidentally. They originally came to the country with their great-aunt, the only surviving member of the family. She died while they awaited formal refugee status, so the two of them went into care once all the paperwork was done."

"Why are they talking now? Didn't all the foster children you talked to refuse to say anything besides the Spencer family?" Sherlock sounded accusatory.

"That was initially the case. A few we failed to reach, like Alla Pinyakova. In this case they contacted us a few months back. The media coverage affected them a lot."

"Changed their minds." From the way Sherlock said it it was hard to tell whether he was making a satisfied statement, asking a question, or just giving the facts.

A mobile's ring tone cut through the air before the conversation could continue. John didn't recognize the tone so he figured it must belong to Lestrade. Lestrade in fact did dig a mobile out from a pocket and look at its screen. "Mr. Aherne just texted me to say they're right in front of the Yard." Sherlock got up without a word and went to stand in the hallway. John followed suit and stood in the doorway, looking out.

He heard them before he saw them. "Slow down!" Mr. Aherne yelled, and a second or two later Moira and Kieran came barrelling down the hall. They both apparently saw Sherlock, as they came to a skidding halt a few feet in front of him. John couldn't help but smile; this was the happiest and most carefree he'd ever seen Moira. The summer break seemed to be doing them a world of good. Both of them were sun-toasted and Moira's hair had lighter streaks in it.

"You two almost ran into Mr. Holmes," scolded Mr. Aherne. He lagged behind his older children, with Dierdre trotting along next to him.

"But we didn't," Kieran said.

Moira now stood in front of Sherlock, still grinning. "Hi! Last week was our tenth birthday. We had curry and ice cream and cake and we went to the Doctor Who experience! And Kieran and I joined the swim club and I met a girl there my age who's got a twin brother too! She's even got a brother and sister who are twins and she came to our party with her brother and we don't go to the same school but she lives nearby. Her family has a dog too but it's a little Sealyham and they have a cat with two different color eyes that's deaf and has extra toes!"

"Wonderful to hear. That sort of cat is called a polydactyl, which means 'extra toes.' Two eyes of a different color are called heterochromia iridium." Sherlock said, smiling.

"I get to see a psychiatrist too. Once a week. He's nice." She still smiled as she said this, but some of the cheer had left her. "Sometimes he talks to me dad too and once even Kieran came in. We talk and play games."

Lestrade put his head out the door, looking over John's shoulder. "Mr. Aherne, good to see you. It's probably better to have this conversation in the office and not the hall, though."

"I agree. In the office, everyone," Mr. Aherne told his children. After a minute or two all of them were back in the office and settled in chairs (with the exception of Sherlock, who stood off to the side).

"How much do you know about what goes on at a trial?" Lestrade asked Moira.

"I've seen bits from shows on the telly," she cautiously replied, her smile vanishing. "The solicitors get up and wave their hands around and say 'Objection!' a lot."

"It's not nearly as exciting in person," Sherlock said. "You won't be there for the whole trial, though. Just when you testify. Do you know what that's going to be like?"

"I sit up next to the judge and the solicitors ask me questions." While her smile didn't return, she seemed more at ease talking to Sherlock.

"Correct. All you're going to do is answer the questions truthfully. It's not like a test, so if you don't know the answer just say you don't know."

"Will you be there watching?" she asked hopefully.

Sherlock shook his head. "No one who's going to testify in the trial's allowed to watch what's going on in court until after they testify. Otherwise they might be influenced by the others."

A thought seemed to occur to her. "Will K be there?"

"Yes, she'll be sitting with her solicitors," Sherlock quietly replied.

She paled. "What if She decides to get up and to go after me?" Her voice quivered.

"There are guards there that will stop her if she tries to do that," Lestrade said reassuringly.

"Do I have to look at Her?" Even though Lestrade had spoken to her, she still kept her gaze on Sherlock.

"Not at all. If you want you can look at who's questioning you or at the judge or even the ground," Sherlock told her.

"I'll be there watching, since I don't have to testify. You can look at me," John added.

That seemed to cheer Moira up a little. "Can I bring Brownie?"

"Of course you can," Sherlock said.

"What happens after I testify?"

"First K's solicitors will ask you questions of their own." Before Sherlock could continue he was interrupted.

"Because they want the jury to think she didn't do anything," Kieran said with a snarl.

"Yes, that is their job," Sherlock responded.

"Your dad and your brother are going to testify too. You know that, right?" Lestrade broke in.

"Yeah."

Sherlock started talking again before Lestrade could open his mouth. "Once they're done testifying other people will do so, but you don't need to be there for that. It'll probably be a long time before the trial is over. If She is found guilty then She will be sentenced and that's a different set of hearings."

"How many other people are going to testify?"

"A lot," Lestrade said. "This is an important case." He stood up and reached into a drawer behind him, taking something out. He turned and put a folder on the desk in front of him. It was the size of a phone book. "These are the papers we filed with the court on the charges."

Moira looked at the folder with wide eyes. "She really did that much?"

"Yes, and probably even more than that," Sherlock commented.

"Why isn't She being charged with more, then?" she asked.

"Because not everyone is brave like you and talked about it."

"You think I'm brave?" Moira sounded awed that Sherlock held her in that much regard.

"Yes, you're a very brave girl." He smiled at her. "Sometimes people are too afraid to talk about being hurt." John wondered if Sherlock meant himself.

"Is there anything else you want to know?" Lestrade asked, obviously eager to take hold of the conversation again. Moira shook her head. "Then I'd like to talk to your father for a bit. You three can wait outside in the hall."

"Just don't go far," Mr. Aherne added. The three children then left the office. "What do you want to ask me?" he said as he turned to face Lestrade.

"How have you been doing?"

Mr. Aherne sighed. "Coping, I suppose. We have good days and bad days. Moira's therapist says my job is to be a 'good poison container,' and I try. Some days though, when she gets to talking a lot about _that woman_..." He looked furious but bit back whatever he had intended to say. "One thing: why does Moira have to be in court in person at all? Don't they have arrangements they can make where she'd testify in another room on camera?"

"Those exist, but in several cases convictions have been overturned later because that manner of testifying wasn't deemed appropriate," Lestrade quietly said. "I only want to see this trial happen once. Unfortunately that means every victim's going to have to appear in person."

"I just think that she's been through so much, and she's shy. I don't know if she's going to do well when the defense solicitors question her." He sighed. "At least when they question me I'll be ready for it."

"You know Her solicitors are going to try to savage you on the stand," Sherlock warned him. "They won't be too hard on Moira since she's a child and no one wants to be seen as harassing someone that young. You're out in the open."

"What could they possibly say about me?" Mr. Aherne said bewilderedly. "That I'm negligent for letting her walk the dog alone?" John wanted to laugh at his naivety; he could think of many things the solicitors might deem suspect.

"With the medical evidence being what it is, they're not going to argue she wasn't abused at all; they'll save that argument for the others. But they may argue you did it." Mr. Aherne gasped as Sherlock continued on. "You haven't dated since your wife died, like a young widower with small children would be expected to."

"I'd never hurt my children," Mr. Aherne said in horror.

"No, you would not. However, that you would might be easier to convince the jury than someone like She would." Sherlock's mouth formed a tight line.

"Mr. Aherne, keep that feeling with you. You'll need it for the trial," Lestrade said.

"I suppose so." He still seemed visibly angry. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"Just be dressed nicely for the trial, all three of you. Your other daughter - will you be bringing her?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes," Mr. Aherne responded, seemingly relieved to have the subject changed. "There's a crèche in the courthouse, right?"

"Correct. It doesn't shut down until nothing's in session."

"I'll bring her there, then."

"Do you have any questions for me, personally?" Lestrade shot Sherlock a "don't jump in here" look.

"No. Thank you for all you've done. Now I really must be going." Mr. Aherne stepped out the door, took Dierdre's hand, and smiled again as Moira and Kieran raced down the hall again.

Once the family had vanished down the hall, Lestrade looked John in the eye before he spoke. "John, I hope this won't be a problem, but I would like to speak to Sherlock alone. Just for a few minutes. You wouldn't mind waiting in the hall?"

"No," John replied. He didn't exactly mind, but he couldn't help but wonder what Lestrade had to say.

"Once you're done talking to me we should be heading back anyway. I hope this will be brief." Sherlock gestured for John to exit, and he did so, shutting the door behind them.

While John could hear that the two of them were arguing inside the office, he couldn't make out any of the words. He leaned against the wall, eyes shut, and was only brought out of that state when he heard someone say: "I haven't seen you around here in a while."

He opened his eyes to see Sally Donovan standing before him. "We were asked to step away from the current case," he carefully said.

"Sherlock hasn't taken a case from here in that long?" She sounded surprised.

"Some private things, but no cases from the Yard, no."

"You've seen the coverage of the current case."

John hadn't expected their conversation to take this direction. "Yes," he finally said. It was hard to ignore the stories in the papers and on the news. Sherlock would leave the room when the television started on them and flipped past the articles, but John still took them in.

"Everyone who writes about it seems so shocked." She paused. "Have you noticed that every five years or so there's another 'shocking child abuse' case? Some horrible story comes out and everyone is surprised at how awful the abuser was and how can this happen and they didn't realize how bad abuse could get?"

"No, I haven't, but I see your point."

"You'd think at some point we'd stop being surprised." She clearly wanted to say more, but the office door opened and Sherlock came out.

"Let's go," he said to John, ignoring Donovan. Without waiting to see if John was following, he strode down the hall. John hurried to follow him.

John was certainly curious about what Lestrade had to say to Sherlock, but he also knew that if it was confidential enough to make him leave the room it wasn't something he was ever going to learn. He also expected a silent cab ride home and when Sherlock said, "Lestrade wanted to know if I would be taking cases from the Yard during Her trial," it took a few seconds for it to register.

"And you told him that you weren't going to, correct?" John guessed.

"You are correct. I will continue to take private cases as they come but I would like to be available for every day of the trial, if I'm needed." Sherlock's hands were curled into fists, and his voice was tight. John took that as a sign the conversation was finished (he certainly couldn't think of anything else to say), and the rest of the trip home was silent.

As soon as they were back home and in the sitting room, Sherlock flopped down on the sofa and wrapped himself around Hamish. By now John had gotten used to the large stuffed toy accompanying Sherlock as he went around the flat. He only occasionally did experiments now, but when he did Hamish was at his side, sitting on a stool of his own. Every morning he came downstairs with the bee tucked under one arm, only putting him down when something required two hands. In that event, Hamish would be placed on the sofa, and John knew better than to move the toy. Most importantly, Hamish got brought up to bed every night. Sherlock would wrap his arms around the bee and hug it to his chest. Only then was John allowed to get in himself.

For the first few nights after Sherlock's combination nightmare/flashback, John had waited for Sherlock to ask him to sleep in his bed again. He always said yes. After a few nights of this, John took the initiative and asked if Sherlock was still okay with this. "It's fine," was all he would ever say. After a few weeks, John didn't ask one night and merely came up to Sherlock's room shortly after he and Hamish had gone upstairs. Sherlock didn't object and the next morning he stated, "Consider the current state default unless I say otherwise," a typically Sherlockian response. Sharing a bed with someone who you were sexually attracted to, who themselves had admitted being romantically interested in you, and still not having any sex or intimacy was odd to John. He'd shared a bed with nonrelated people before, but there it had been more along the lines of endless complaints about who was taking up the most room. Since Sherlock always held Hamish in his arms the two of them didn't touch at all. Their heads were close to each other, but their lower bodies stayed far away.

Of course, Sherlock didn't always go to bed. John still spent nights in his room when Sherlock spent the night pacing around downstairs, or vanished for whatever reason. The closer the trial got the more he seemed to do that, to the point where John only saw him sleep twice a week or so. He wondered if it was the same problem that led to the shredded bedsheets, and unobtrusively bought a pile of identical ones that he left in Sherlock's closet, but John didn't check to see if they'd been used. He figured that Sherlock needed some privacy about that. It was the same reason he left Sherlock alone to get dressed for bed. John knew that Sherlock had only started to wear clothes when he slept because of John being there, and that way he didn't have to make a big deal out of it.

"You should sleep in your room tonight." Sherlock broke the silence even though he still faced the sofa back and not the room. "I won't be sleeping for some time."

"Are you going out this evening?" John asked.

"Phillip left a message saying he wanted to meet with me alone. I will be meeting him at Angelo's in one hour." He paused. "I have some other things to do after that and will likely get in quite late."

"I'll see you in the morning, then." John then went to the kitchen to try to scrounge up something for dinner, and by the time he finished making something Sherlock was heading out the door without a word. Hamish was still on the sofa, and John didn't touch him. The quiet evening that followed helped calm his nerves about the approaching trial. Even so, when he fell asleep later that night his dreams were filled with K's smug grin as she walked out of the courthouse while hearing "Not guilty" from the faceless jury.

It only stopped around three in the morning, when he woke to the sound of Sherlock pacing downstairs. He lay in bed for a few minutes, hearing Sherlock say "I must, I must, I must," over and over again. Knowing that Sherlock was so anxious about the trial didn't make John feel any better, but when he fell back asleep he had no more dreams.


	32. Chapter 32

On the first day of the trial, John woke up in his own bed. For the past three nights Sherlock had been absent and although he'd been there the previous night he'd spent the whole night pacing downstairs. He showered and dressed, feeling slightly anxious. Sarah knew he'd be attending the whole thing ("Don't worry about your position," she reassured him) and Lestrade had taken him off the list of probable witnesses. Even though he knew he wasn't going to be anything but an observer, he couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of his stomach. When he came downstairs for breakfast, all he could manage was a cup of coffee.

"You'll be getting there before the start of the trial, I presume," Sherlock said from behind him. John turned to look at him. He stood in the doorway, still wearing the clothes had worn yesterday, Hamish under his arm as usual.

"Yes," John replied as he sipped his coffee.

"Are you going to witness the whole thing?"

"I'll try to."

"Phillip rang me last night."

"He must be anxious." If John felt anxious even though he was only going to be an observer, he couldn't imagine how Phillip felt.

"He will be testifying after Moira and her family."

"I wonder why his mother pays for a mobile for him. It's not like she puts any other effort into him," John idly remarked.

"You are correct. I should look into that myself. Why did I not think of that before?" Sherlock's surprise was evident. He then turned and walked back out the door, and after he disappeared from sight John could hear him heading up the stairs.

After another cup of coffee John headed out the door and hailed a cab. He gave the general intersection of the court, but not the precise address, as he didn't want to have any sort of discussion about the trial. Unfortunately, the cab driver eagerly started talking shortly after John got in. "You'll be right by the trial, then," he commented. "Seems like every paper's got it on the front page." Not wanting to encourage him, John merely made a nonspecific noise. The cab driver seemed to take this as a cue to continue talking. "I don't think it will go anywhere," he went on. "Look at those pictures in the paper. She looks like someone's kindly old aunt. And why didn't anyone say anything until now? Apparently they've got people saying something happened twenty years back, but none of them bothered to speak up at all."

John bit his lip and considered asking the driver to just let him out now. He instead made another nonspecific noise while thinking _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ again and again. Of course he wasn't that fortunate; the cab driver went on and on about the trial until they got to his destination. He had several ideas about why K was being falsely accused, amongst them the former foster children wanting to sue and at least two of the fathers having really committed the crime. As John got out, he shoved some pounds at him, pointedly leaving no tip.

Thankfully, it was early enough that no crowd had gathered by the courthouse. Before he could go up the steps, he saw Lestrade walking up. "John!" he said, clearly happy to see him. "I thought you'd be here. The prosecutors will be here shortly. You wouldn't know them, of course. Lewis George - everyone calls him Lou - and Susan Glenn. Both good people who've done abuse cases before."

"Who's the judge?" John asked. He wouldn't know whoever it was either, but he was curious.

"Richard Foster. He's been on the bench for twenty years. The defense solicitors are Marvin Clark and Rochelle Harvey. Both of them have gotten some very big acquittals." An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and after a minute Lestrade called out: "Lou! Should have known you'd be early!" to a man getting out of a nearby cab.

"I'd rather get up at five in the morning than make my way through the crowd that's going to be here," the man said. He was tall and round in a way that made John think of Tweedledee. "Let's go in." He then turned to look at John. "Who's this?" he asked. "I thought I'd already met with all the witnesses. And you told me Victim Three had black hair."

"This is John Watson. He's helped us with this case," was Lestrade's clipped response.

"Oh yes, you were on the potential witness list," Lou said pleasantly.

"Yes," John replied. "I won't be testifying though."

"John is well acquainted with Victim Three," Lestrade added.

"Well, I hope Susan and I can talk to him before he gets on the stand. Now we should go in." Lou ascended the courthouse steps surprisingly swiftly, and John and Lestrade struggled to keep up with him. As they walked down the main hall, Lou stopped at a set of doors and opened one to look into a vacant courtroom. "We beat the buffalo," he said.

"Buffalo?" John echoed in confusion.

"There's a group of people who come to court every day and watch all the trials. They sit right in front. Every court's got them, and they're called buffalo." Lou shut the door and headed once again for the back room. "I'm glad we got Foster for this case. He's a fair man. I have great respect for him. Knows how to keep order." He turned and opened a door to a small carpeted room with a few tables and chairs. All three of them sat down. "We'll wait here for Susan. And Victim Two and her family, but you can't be there for that part, John."

"I've met her," John said. He wondered why Lou didn't use her name.

"I know you have, but when Susan and I brief her for testimony no one else can be here. Lestrade's going to talk to us before she gets here; he'll be testifying much later on." He looked John in the eye before speaking again. "I'm not calling her Victim Two because I enjoy it, you know. It's easier to speak to the media if I'm accustomed to referring to her as that instead of Moira Aherne." He looked towards the door. "It's Susan's turn to bring breakfast, so we'll get bagels and some fruit pastry with the coffee - and the cocoa for herself, of course. She says she needs the buzz from the sweets to begin these monster trials."

A minute later the door opened and a woman with short dark hair and glasses walked in. She carried a large bakery bag in one hand and a six pack of coffee in another. "Thought you'd beat me here, Lou. When it's your turn to bring breakfast you never seem to show up this early." She set the food on the table. "Good morning, Lestrade. As good as it can be, at least, for a case like this." Next to Lou she looked pocket-sized; she had a thin build and was barely five feet tall. She sat down next to John. "You must be John Watson."

Lou must have noticed John's startled expression, because he went on to explain: "Susan's the case computer. She's memorized every victim's birthday, full name, and appearance. She knows what every single potential witness looks like and how they relate to the case. She's even memorized most of the details of the charges."

"Someone has to do it," she calmly replied. "Doctor Watson, feel free to help yourself to the food." She took two of the coffee cups and put one each in front of Lou and Lestrade. "There's two more coffees and an extra cocoa if you'd like something to drink."

After two cups of coffee that morning, John wasn't thirsty in the slightest, but to his amazement he was now starving. He reached into the bag and took out a bagel and an apple pastry. In a few short minutes, he had devoured both. Everyone else reached into the bag and took out bagels and pastry. Despite her petite stature, Susan ate three pastries and a bagel that looked like it had chocolate chips in it. Lou was the one who took only half a bagel (he gave the other half to Lestrade). Only when every crumb of food had been finished did Susan speak again. "You should probably go get a seat in the courtroom now, John. With a case like this there's going to be a mad rush for seats and you don't want to sit right behind the buffalo."

"The Ahernes should be here soon, and we can't talk to a witness with anyone else here. Even Lestrade is leaving in a minute, once we go over some details," Lou added.

"I'll just head down there, then," John said. "It's the one you were looking in before, right?"

"The exact same one," Lou said.

"Thanks for breakfast," John told them as he left the room and walked down the hall to the other door. He opened it slowly and saw that a row had already been filled with people. The way they chatted amongst themselves indicated they all knew each other. This apparently was what the buffalo looked like. None of them looked at him as he settled himself into one of the middle benches, next to the aisle. They didn't seem to notice he was there at all until he coughed very audibly. Only then did they look back at him, then began talking among themselves again. He heard one say, "Who is he?" but the others were smart enough to not speak loudly.

For the next hour, people slowly trickled into the room. Most wore a press badge on the front of their shirt; some had cameras, video equipment, and tablets of both the electronic and traditional variety. They conversed with each other as easily as the buffalo did. Unlike the buffalo, they didn't seem surprised by John's presence. Other people without press badges came in and sat themselves down. They clustered together and all seemed to speak in unison; none of them made any attempt to speak quietly, but they couldn't be made out amongst the din anyway.

John didn't look at any of the people who came in until he heard a collective intake of breath from behind him. He turned to look as the doors swung open. A man and woman in suits stood there, both of them saying a few words to the reporters. As they talked they walked down to the dock. And a few steps behind them was K. She wore a neat business suit and her black hair had been pulled back into a bun. She still had some of the motherly air she'd had before, but she also seemed very much the respectable professional.

Then, it happened. She locked eyes with John. He felt too shocked to do anything, but she had no such problem; she smiled broadly at him. It was only for a second and it would have been hard to prove she directed it at him, but John knew it was meant for him. It meant, "I'm not going to be found guilty." It meant, "I'm proud of what I did to your little friend." It meant, "When I get off the charges I'm going to start doing it all over again." John bit back the urge to start screaming to everyone in the court that you'd know she was guilty from that smile and the look in her eyes.

The defense solicitors didn't seem to have noticed the exchange. They first watched as K settled herself in the dock and then made their way down to the defense box. The woman, Rochelle Harvey, seemed to be in charge; she talked to the man while he nodded. She looked taller than John by a few inches and wore wire-framed glasses. Even though she had to at least be in her fifties, her hair was still platinum blond and thick in a way that indicated she wasn't dyeing it. Marvin Clark also wore glasses and had dark hair creeping towards baldness.

Only a few minutes after the defense came in, Lou and Susan walked in through the doors. Unlike the defense, they didn't stop to talk to the media representatives that swarmed around them. They simply waved them away and walked down to their section of the court. The press took this as the cue to stop hovering around the doors and make their way to the press box. In a few minutes the courtroom was full and quiet, everyone in it politely seated. The jury then was lead in by an usher and seated. Shortly after that an usher called, "Court rise!" and everyone got to their feet. Judge Foster entered the room through a side door and seated himself at the bench. He banged his gavel and the others in the courtroom sat down. "The Crown Court is now in session. Today's case is _R vs. Martin_." He looked towards the prosecution. "Is the prosecution ready to begin?"

"Yes, your Honor," Susan said.

He looked at the defense solicitors. "Is the defense ready to begin?"

"Yes, your Honor," Mr. Clark said.

"Then Mr. George should come to the front to present opening arguments."

Lou strode to the front of the courtroom like he didn't have a care in the world. He turned to face the spectators. "Child abuse," he said with no leadup. John could feel the collective shudder of the people in the room, like just hearing the words hurt. Before they could recover he added, "Sexual abuse," and a few people gasped. _And they know what the trial's for_, John thought. "You don't want to hear that, do you?" he asked as he looked at the rest of the court. "No one does. Doctors never stop being shocked at a thirteen year old boy whose arm got broken by someone, or a nine year old girl with vaginal lacerations. The police say those are the hardest cases to deal with. So it's easy to understand why the first reaction in a case like this is disbelief. Especially when the accused is so normal-looking, and seems like such a nice lady. No one wants to think that an abuser is someone who we see every day, who's not some mysterious other that you can avoid." He paused as if to let that sink in. "But the only victims in this case that knew each other were siblings, and they all picked out the same person. They all gave details that matched the other ones. And they were all found in photographs. Kelly Martin had those photographs. And I think that once you hear from all of the victims we could find, you'll agree she was the one who assaulted them all. Thank you." He returned to sit next to Susan. John glanced at the people around him and saw that many of them were wide-eyed. Most looked dazed. One or two of them seemed on the verge of tears. He looked back at K and saw she was still sitting calmly, with a small smile on her face.

An eerie silence hung over the court as Mrs. Harvey came to stand in front of all of them. John resisted the urge to be angry at her. Even the worst criminals needed a defense, and she was just doing her job. That didn't stop his stomach muscles from contracting, though. "Mr. George was right before. Child abuse is a horrible topic, and many abusers are right amongst us," she began. "It's such a horrible topic that sometimes we lose the ability to think rationally about it. The photographs he mentioned do in fact exist, but they are not Dr. Martin's at all and in fact belong to someone else. Someone we will show has considerable reason to be angry with Dr. Martin." Her constant use of "Dr. Martin" irritated John; he knew it was an attempt to make her seem as respectable as possible. "But Dr. Martin has never had any complaints in her long pediatric career. She's never had any complaints about her foster care work. Unfortunately, there is one individual who has a grudge against her. He is the one who is responsible for all of the charges now, and he is sadly mentally unbalanced. As this trial goes on, we hope you will see that there is nothing Dr. Martin is guilty of other than placing trust in the mentally ill. Thank you."

John barely remembered the next minute or two; the solicitors talked to the judge but he wasn't able to remember anything they said. _They're pinning it all on Sherlock_, he thought to himself with dread. It was almost another way to victimize him, even after so long. Would the jury be able to see through it? Or would Dr. Martin earn that smug grin?


	33. Chapter 33

By the time John had come out of his angry haze, he heard Lou say, "The prosecution calls Moira Aherne." He looked up to see a court usher escorting Moira to the witness stand. She wore a dress, the first time John had ever seen her in one, and with her free arm clutched Brownie tightly to her chest. Before sitting down, she looked out at the crowd. John remembered that she knew he'd be there and smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. She must have seen him, because a smile flickered across her face as she sat down.

After she was sworn in, and Lou had come to stand next to the witness stand, Judge Foster turned to her and said, "You just have to answer the questions you're asked. If you don't know the answer, say you don't know." She nodded.

Lou greeted her in a cheery tone. "Good morning, Moira."

"Good morning," she said cautiously in response. She pulled Brownie closer to her.

"What's your bear's name?"

"Brownie."

"How long have you had him?"

"Since I was born. Me mum gave him to me. He was hers first."

"When did you move to London?" Lou asked, transitioning into more painful subjects without a beat.

"Last year. February." Her entire body had gone rigid.

"Do you know why you moved here?"

"Me dad got a job here. He said it was better than the one he had in Donegal."

"And you don't have any family in London?"

She shook her head. "No. Me mum and me dad were both in care when they were little, so there's just us."

"What happened after you moved here?" Lou's cheeriness had turned somber.

"The school is really big. And the flat didn't have a garden. The school was so big that I got lost." She shifted her gaze from Lou to the ground. "I was too scared to talk to the other kids, most of the time. They didn't seem to notice me."

"So you didn't make any friends?"

"No. I had my brother and our dog Rory to play with but no one else. Sometimes Kieran wanted to play alone though, and it's my job to take care of Rory, so I took him for a lot of walks."

"You are supposed to walk Rory?"

"Yeah. Ever since me dad taught him not to pull on lead I've got to walk him."

"Is there anywhere in particular you liked to walk him?"

Moira went even more rigid, if such a thing were possible. Her eyes widened. After a moment of silence she whispered: "The park near our flat with the play yard."

"Was there anyone to play with there?" Lou gently asked.

"Not at first." If it hadn't been for the microphone there, John was sure no one would have heard her.

"Do you mean someone else eventually showed up?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that person."

Moira looked out at the crowd and John, figuring that she was once again looking for him, sat up as straight as he could and smiled at her again. Apparently this was enough, as she began to talk again. "I'd gone to the park with Rory that day. It was me mum's birthday and me dad was sitting at home all sad and Kieran yelled at me to go away. I started telling Rory about her and I got so sad I cried. The next thing I remember is this lady asking me what my dog's name was. I told Her about Rory and She asked why I was crying. I said it was me mum's birthday and she was in heaven now." John had heard her tell Sherlock of the time she'd first met K, of course, but her story now had far more detail. He suspected the first version had been heavily edited to make sure she wouldn't expose K's identity. "Then I said we'd just moved here. She sat down next to me and we talked for a while. When I talked to Her I could pretend me mum was there because I missed her so much. While we were talking She put her hand on my leg."

"What did you do then?" Lou patiently asked.

"Nothing. I liked talking to Her so I didn't want to say anything even though it felt weird. After a little bit of that I told Her I needed to go home. Then She said that She didn't even know my name." As soon as she said that, she looked down, like she was being scolded. Brownie migrated from under one arm to clutched protectively to her chest.

"What did you say?" Lou had to know what was coming next, but still radiated calm.

"I didn't say anything." Moira sounded close to tears.

"Did she say anything?"

"Yes," she squeaked out.

"What did she say?"

After a silence so long John expected the judge to intervene, Moira managed to say: "She asked me 'Are you a boy or a girl?' and then moved Her hand to the top of my sweatpants."

A few audience members gasped, but Lou went on as if nothing were amiss. "What did you say then?"

"I said I was a girl." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"What did she say?"

"'Are you sure? Let me check.'" That admission seemed to be too much for Moira; she brought Brownie to her face and started to cry. Several of the people watching had the same problem. John could hear sobs from several different directions.

"What happened then?" Lou said once he could see her face again.

"She put Her hand down my sweatpants and rubbed between my legs. It felt hot and it was kind of nice but I didn't know if I liked it." Moira wasn't crying anymore, but the sobs in the audience had only gotten louder. "Then She said I was definitely a girl. Said that you could smell it and She smelled the fingers on that hand. Then She asked me if that felt good. I said yes because it kind of did and maybe if I said it did She'd be my first friend in London. She told me that if I came back the next day I'd get a surprise." Even though John had heard it all before, he still got a lump in his throat.

"Did you go back there?"

"Yeah," she whispered.

"What happened?"

"I did get a surprise. She had this book about dogs with big photos of them and She let me look at it. Then She said it was cold out here and wouldn't it be better if we went to Her flat? Rory wasn't with me this time so I went."

"For how long did you keep meeting her?"

"A long time. If Rory was with me we'd stay in the park but if he wasn't we usually went to Her flat."

"Did she try to touch you again?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that."

"The first time we went back to Her flat I looked all over it and then I went into the bedroom. It had this really big bed, even bigger than me dad's, and I lay down on it. She came into the room and asked if She could lie down there too and I said yes. She took off the blouse and skirt She was wearing first, though. I looked at Her more than I should have because I'd never seen a grown lady in underwear except me mum and she doesn't count, really. She didn't say anything, just smiled at me. There was all this hair near Her knickers. You could see a lot because they weren't very big, just sort of made out of string. I knew that happened when you grew up but I didn't think it was going to be that much. I asked if it hurt when it grew in, like with teeth. She said no, it was just like normal hair, and I could feel it if I wanted." Even now, Moira looked haunted. "I did and then She said I should take my clothes off too. I did and She rubbed between my legs some more and..."

"What happened next?" prompted Lou after a long silence.

"She took her fingers and spread out the place between Her legs and let me look and told me to put a finger of mine up there."

"Did you do that?"

"Yeah. Then She did the same thing with me."

"Did anything else happen when you were there?"

"I don't remember," Moira quickly replied, making it obvious that whatever it was she didn't want to discuss it.

"For how long did you see her after that?"

"A few times each week. We'd meet at the park and sometimes we'd stay there and other times we went to Her flat."

"What would you do on those occasions?"

"We'd talk about things. She liked it when I showed Her all the tricks Rory could do. Sometimes She'd give me sweets or lemonade."

"Was that all you did?"

"No."

"What else did you do?"

"She liked to touch me." Moira brought Brownie up so he half covered her face. "Sometimes She just wanted to kiss me. On the lips, with Her tongue. Other times She wanted to touch me between my legs. Sometimes She..." She brought Brownie down and hung her head. "She'd stick fingers in me. In my bum or in my, um, vagina. Or lick me there."

The crying from the audience had quieted some, but Moira's most recent statement made it start up all over again. "She just wanted to touch you?" Lou asked, as if he didn't hear the crying at all.

"Sometimes. She liked me to touch Her too. The same things She did to me, except She liked me to touch Her breasts. And She had these things She liked me to put in Her."

John had known things like that were coming, and he still had to swallow the lump in his throat. At this point, the only person who seemed calm was Lou. (K might have been calm but John didn't dare look back to see.) "Were those the only places you met? The park and her flat?"

"No."

"Where else did you meet?"

"Sometimes She'd come in through my window."

"Had you told her where you lived?"

"No. She said She'd looked it up."

"Had anything happened before she came through your window? With the two of you, I mean."

"Yeah," Moira said and then buried her head in her arms. Lou walked over to the witness stand and talked quietly with her and the judge.

"The court will adjourn for five minutes," the judge said once the conversation finished. One usher led the jury out while several others led the audience to the doors. John went with the rest of them and they got herded back into the court five minutes later. Moira looked like she had been crying, but seemed composed enough now.

"Okay. I'll ask you again. Did anything happen between the two of you before she came in through the window?" Lou said for a second time.

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that."

"The day before at Her flat we had a fight. I'd seen Her for a couple of months and everything we did was starting to get scary. It was scary before too but now it just got worse. Things I'd had to put in Her She wanted to put in me. I finally said I was going to tell me dad about Her. She said She knew where I lived and if I told him She'd kill him. I said She was lying and I left. The next night I heard Her tap on the window. I opened it and She gave me a meatball I was supposed to give to Rory and I let him eat it. She came in through the window then and said if I yelled She'd put poison in me dad's sugar for his coffee." A few people actually gasped as they heard this, and John heard someone head up the aisle and out the door.

"Did she do this a lot?"

"Sometimes."

"What was she like at other times?"

"Different. Sometimes She'd say She loved me and She wished I was Her little girl. She'd hug me and kiss me and all that, like me dad does. Sometimes She'd say She knew She was special to me since She was my only friend and She'd give me gifts and sweets and stuff. Other times She'd say that if I didn't do what She wanted She knew where I lived and could kill me dad if She wanted to. A few times when She was nice to me She'd said She took kids in from care like me parents had been and if anything happened to me dad She'd be able to take care of me." The short break had seemingly done a lot to calm Moira; she spoke with no hesitation or fear.

"You were in hospital last February. Can you tell me about that?" Lou hadn't lost his composure at all while questioning her and still seemed relaxed.

"Yeah," Moira said and she proceeded to tell the same story she had told Sherlock a few months ago. Since John had heard it already he only felt somewhat sad, but the rest of the court had not and the tears and gasps seemed to have gotten louder.

When she finished the story, Lou said, "No further questions," and went to sit next to Susan again. Clark then came up to the stand. He didn't seem nearly as relaxed as Lou was and John wondered if that was a result of Moira's testimony.

"Hello, Moira, I'm Mr. Clark and I'm just going to ask you a few questions," he said in a falsely cheerful tone.

"Hi," she said cautiously.

"You've got a brother?" he said in the same tone.

"Yeah, and a sister."

"What are their names?"

"Dierdre and Kieran."

"Are you the oldest?"

"Yeah. Kieran's half an hour younger and Dierdre's almost seven."

"How do you like London so far?"

"It's big. We can get lots of kinds of takeaway though." This caused the audience to laugh.

"Is your dad busier than he was in Ireland?"

Moira shook her head. "No. He's got more time because he works for some other people instead of by himself so he doesn't have to do everything."

"When your father took you and your siblings to the hospital, you told him and the police that nothing had happened and no one hurt you." Clark's segue seemed abrupt, unlike Lou's smooth transitions.

"Yeah," Moira said, her whole body going rigid.

"Why did you say that if someone did?"

"Because I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"But if you were hurt then someone was already hurt, right?"

"Someone besides me," she clarified.

"Like who?"

"Me dad and brother. And K."

"K is Dr. Martin?" Unable to speak, she merely nodded. "Why?"

"Because," she finally whispered.

"Because of what?" Clark pressed.

"Because of the poison in the sugar bowl and Rory and his meatball."

"Why didn't you say anything to Sergeant Donovan when she questioned you?"

"The poison," she repeated.

"But you talked to Mr. Holmes, didn't you?"

"Not all at once."

"Why did you talk to him if you were so worried other people would get hurt?"

Moira clutched Brownie to her chest and slouched in her seat. "He didn't ask the same things other people did. And he knew about Her before I said anything."

"Knew about her? Did he mention her to you when he questioned you?" Clark seemed delighted with this bit of information.

"He said he'd known someone like that, but he didn't say who it was. Is it Her too?" Moira's confused tone made it clear that this question had backfired; she really hadn't known that Sherlock had been abused by K as well.

"Are you close to your dad?" Clark obviously knew that line of questioning was going to hurt their case; he switched the subject without a second thought.

"Yeah."

"Do you tell him everything?"

"Not everything." The audience laughed again.

"But most things?"

"Most."

"So you never told him you had a hard time making friends?"

"I did," Moira said angrily.

"What did he say when you told him that?"

"That he knew I was shy and it'd just take some time. He asked if they were teasing me and I said no because they really weren't. The other kids just ignored me."

"But when you did make a friend you didn't tell him. Why?" He sounded accusing.

"She's an adult and I'm a kid. He wouldn't have liked it."

"You didn't like what was going on though, did you?"

"Not all of it."

"Why didn't you tell him about the bad parts, then?"

"Because I wanted to still have a friend! No matter what She did it was better than being lonely!" Moira shouted at him.

Clark looked somewhat stunned at the fact she was yelling and said simply: "No further questions."

Susan walked confidently up to the witness stand as the usher led Moira out through a side door. "The prosecution calls Kieran Aherne." Another usher led him to the witness stand. Kieran was wearing a linen shirt, khaki trousers, and a tie. He looked as uncomfortable as Moira had in a dress. He sat down and looked up at Susan. "Hello, Kieran," she said once he was sworn in.

"Hello," he replied.

"Last January you went to the park to bring your sister home. Can you tell us about that?" she asked without the banter used on Moira.

"Yeah, I can," he said, and related the story he had told Sherlock, without once pausing.

"Is the woman you saw kissing your sister in court today?"

"Yeah."

"Can you point her out?" Kieran pointed without hesitation to the dock where K sat. "No further questions," Susan said as soon as he was done.

Mrs. Harvey came up to the stand as Susan left. Unlike Clark, she didn't seem anxious or uncomfortable. "Does your father kiss you, Kieran?" It was clear she wanted to trim the testimony to the essentials.

"Yeah, he does. But not like that woman did. On the cheek or the forehead."

"Did you think something was wrong with the way she kissed her?"

"Yeah, it was like you see in those romance movies."

"On the mouth?"

"Not just that. With her tongue out."

"And you thought there was something wrong with that?"

"Yeah."

"Then why didn't you tell your father about it?"

"Moira told me not to tell him."

"And that was that?" Harvey asked, sounding skeptical.

"That was that," he confirmed.

"Why?"

"Because she's my twin and we keep each other's secrets."

"So if Moira told you she'd killed someone and not to tell anyone, you'd never tell anyone?"

"Yeah," Kieran replied, and the audience laughed.

Just like Clark had been before, Harvey seemed surprised at his candid response. "No further questions," she said, sounding like she thought the best thing to do was to cut her losses.

"The court will adjourn for one hour," Judge Foster said before Harvey could sit down again. John looked at his watch and saw it was past noon already. He filed out of the courtroom with everyone else, feeling as proud of the Aherne children as if he were their own father.


	34. Chapter 34

Once the court was reseated after lunch, Lou came up to the stand. "The prosecution calls John Aherne." As an usher led Mr. Aherne to the witness stand John could see the terrible effect the case still had on him; he had lost weight and looked somewhat like a man condemned. John assumed Sherlock's warning that the defense would try to savage him on the stand weighed heavy in his mind.

Once he was sworn in, Lou asked him: "When did you move to London?"

"Almost a year and a half ago," Mr. Aherne replied in a strangely flat tone.

"Why did you choose to move here?"

"In Ireland I ran my own catering business out of my home. The money wasn't bad but it involved a lot of work. Since my wife had died a few years back this meant my children weren't given as much attention as I would have liked. A larger, London-based catering program offered me a job. The pay was good and a friend of mine in London had a flat to offer me. He is a landlord and usually lives on the ground floor of the building with his family, but his wife needed to travel abroad for two years. I'm renting it from him at a low rate while another friend manages the building. We'd never been able to afford a three bedroom flat otherwise. Now I have more time to spend with my children and we can buy a house outside of London when he returns."

"It sounds like your children are very important to you."

"They are." Mr. Aherne smiled and his love for them showed clearly on his face. "I got taken into care when I was young and my mother died when I was sixteen, so I have no family but them."

"You would consider your relationship with them close?"

"Absolutely. I always tell them I won't get angry with them if they tell me the truth."

"Your daughter said before she told you she had a hard time making friends. Can you tell us about that?"

Mr. Aherne obviously knew where this was leading, and his expression grew somber. "Moira's a shy girl, you understand. Her brother and sister are much bolder. We're in a new city, a new country really, and it's nothing like what she's used to. In March she told me that she still didn't really know any of her classmates at all, that they ignored her. I asked if she was being bullied and she said no. I thought all she needed was time. She did say she still played with Kieran at recess and that put me at ease."

"Was there a point where you noticed her behavior was starting to change?" Lou sounded as relaxed as he usually was, but that didn't stop Mr. Aherne's face from blanching.

"Not all at once," he said slowly. "When I look back on it it's all a lot easier to see."

"Tell us what you now know you saw first."

"Moira's always been very close to our bullmastiff, Rory. She loves animals and she was the one who was happiest about getting a dog. He sleeps in her room. She feeds him and brushes him and takes him on walks. A few weeks after our talk about making friends she began to take him to the park down the street every day. Usually they'd play there for a half hour or so, but it got to the point where they spent hours there, especially when there was no school. I asked her what she was doing there and she said she was just playing with Rory and taking him through his tricks. She taught him those tricks and was always very proud of that. I didn't like that she was spending so much time alone there, since this is the city and all, but she's old enough to go some places by herself. For a little while she seemed happier, and that made me feel better."

"When did you notice her mood had changed?"

"She started to spend more time alone in her room. Kieran and her have been inseparable since birth, but she wasn't playing with him at home any more."

"Did you bring this up with her?"

"Yes I did. I asked her if she felt all right and asked again about school. Bullies can be so vicious, especially with someone shy. She said she just felt like being by herself." He paused for a moment. "There were... nightmares. I should have known something was wrong when she woke up screaming and wouldn't tell me what was wrong. She said she'd had a bad dream. Even after her mother died I never heard anything like that."

"As time passed, did you notice any progression of those problems?"

"Yes." Mr. Aherne briefly rested his head on one of his hands. "She has a teddy bear, Brownie, that used to belong to her mother. It's always been around and she can't sleep without him, but usually he stays in her room. She started carrying him all over the flat, and even to school in her book bag. I told her she might get teased if anyone saw it, but she said she made sure no one did."

"What was her mood like?" asked Lou.

"Sad," said Mr. Aherne, a frown on his face. "Moira is shy but she's usually quite content. Around May she started having crying spells. Just crying uncontrollably for a few minutes every day. Nothing I said could make her stop. She still wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I keep telling myself now that I should have done something more, should have asked her more. I did ask if she wanted to talk to a doctor, but she screamed hysterically when I mentioned it."

"Why didn't you ask more?"

"I wondered if it was something she didn't feel comfortable speaking about with me. She's going to be a teenager in a few years, and we've had talks along that line but perhaps it was something she didn't think I'd understand. She said there was nothing wrong, though."

"In your own words, can you tell me what happened the night of Thursday, February 10?"

Mr. Aherne took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. After a long period of silence he told the court the same story he had told Lestrade last February. When he finished it he added: "I tried to think of a person that could have done it and I couldn't think of one."

"Did you make the connection between that and Moira's visits to the park?" said Lou.

"Not at that point, no. It's really a place for children to play so I didn't think about an adult going there."

"What went on while she was in hospital?"

"Several different people from Scotland Yard came to talk to her about what had happened. She always said that nothing had happened and she didn't know anyone who had hurt her. And on the first night, when I went to bring her brother and sister back home to get some sleep, she became hysterical and said that if I went home I'd die. That concerned me. I didn't think it was a real threat, but knowing my daughter felt I couldn't be safe in our home..." He wiped his eyes again. "It wasn't until Saturday that she said anything to anyone."

"Tell us about that."

"I had come over earlier to spend the day with Moira. After we'd eaten dinner a man who worked with the Yard came to talk to her. It wasn't much, but she seemed a lot more willing to speak to him than anyone else. When he left I asked her about him and she said that he didn't make it seem like she had to tell him everything 'or else.' I said the officers were only trying to help her, and she said they still seemed mean."

"When did she next speak to that man?"

"Thursday. She'd been out of hospital for a few days at that point. He came to our flat and talked to her in her room. I wasn't there, but I heard the interview the next day. It had been recorded."

"Did you ever talk to her about what she was saying to the police?" said Lou.

Mr. Aherne shook his head. "They said it might jeopardize the investigation, and if she brought it up herself we could talk but otherwise not to press the issue."

"In your own words can you tell me what happened on the night of Friday, February 18?"

After a pause and a deep intake of breath, Mr. Aherne told the same story he'd told Sherlock that very night. "You have to understand how angry I felt. My daughter was being threatened with my death. She was being attacked _in her own bedroom_. The one place where she should feel safe! I told the officers I'd sleep in her room with a knife if I had to and I meant it. I considered moving to a hotel, but the expense would have been far too much. In the end I just moved her bed to my room. Some nights she'd crawl into bed with me and our dog would get up there with her. I let her. She had some very good reasons to want to be close to me. I even started buying individual sugar packets. I just... a child of that age shouldn't know so much about the evils of the world." While he sounded angry when he explained his feelings, it had slowly drained out of him until he merely sounded sad.

"When did you next meet with the police?"

"The twenty-seventh. They said there had been an arrest and Moira had to pick someone out of a lineup."

"So you went down there with her?"

"Yes. Truthfully, I was terrified I'd see someone I knew from the neighborhood, or from work, or a hundred other places. Knowing the person beforehand would have been too much." His voice broke.

"Did you recognize any of them?" Lou said.

"No, thank God. Moira certainly did though; she froze once the lights came on and only pointed at someone when she seemed sure no one could see her."

"You saw who she said was her abuser?"

"Yes I did."

"Is this person in court today?"

"Yes."

"Can you point to them?" Lou cast his eyes towards the crowd. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Aherne pointed towards the dock where K sat. Lou nodded, seemingly satisfied. "How has your daughter been since this person was arrested?"

"Both better and worse."

"Can you tell us what you mean by that?"

"Well, she started seeing a therapist. He's been very helpful. She seems less anxious and isn't panicking once I'm out of her sight. There's still nightmares and crying jags, though. And she's started bringing up what that woman did to her on her own." Anger crept into his voice.

"You've been given permission by the police to discuss it with her, then?" Lou asked.

"If she brings it up on her own. And she does." He sounded even more angry than before.

"Tell me about what she's brought up."

"About a month ago she asked me if I was angry with her. I said I wasn't and asked her why. She said that I'd always said to not talk to people she didn't know and she had anyway. I told her then that she hadn't just walked up to a stranger and started talking to them, she'd just answered when that woman had talked to her. Then she said that she'd let her do things that she knew were wrong, and wasn't I mad with her for not telling me about it? I said then that that woman knew what she was doing was wrong too, and she was an adult. She was the one who's supposed to know better, not a little girl." John could see Mr. Aherne give an angry glance to the dock. "That was hard to hear. After all that's happened she still feels like the one who's done something wrong. I'd like to say we haven't had a conversation like that since, but there's been several just like that, I'm sorry to say."

Seemingly from nowhere, Lou produced a small collection of photographs. John took a deep breath as he realized what they were. "I'd like you to take a look at these photographs," he said as he held one in front of Mr. Aherne. "Do you recognize where this was taken?"

"Yes I do," Mr. Aherne softly replied.

"Where?"

"Moira's room." He took a deep breath.

"Do you recognize the girl in the photograph?"

"Yes. She's my Moira."

Lou then walked over to the jury stand and let them see the photograph. The widened eyes and gasps that resulted made it clear what was depicted in them. He walked back over to the witness stand and repeated the process for the next three photographs. Each time Mr. Aherne identified the person in them as his daughter and the place they were taken as her room. By the time the final one was shown, Mr. Aherne and several of the members of the jury had tears coming down their cheeks.

While Mr. Aherne wiped his eyes, Lou said: "No further questions," and he walked back to the prosecution bench.

Possibly because Lou and Susan appeared to be alternating positions, John expected Clark to step up to the stand. It came as a surprise that Harvey walked up there instead, looking like she was on a mission. "Are you ever planning to move back to Ireland?" she asked Mr. Aherne. Unlike when she had questioned Kieran, she did not attempt to soften her voice or sound anything other than accusing.

"Possibly, if I can get work for the branch there. Otherwise no." Mr. Aherne kept his voice level.

"When did your wife die?"

"Almost four years ago."

"What of?"

"A pulmonary embolism from her pregnancy. She hadn't had any symptoms until she collapsed at work and then it was too late." He sounded sad even remembering it.

"How did her family feel when you left the country?" Her highly accusing tone made it sound like he had abducted his children instead of just moving.

"Nora didn't have any family. She was found in a pub loo when she was an infant," Mr. Aherne explained.

"But someone must have wanted to adopt her." Harvey still sounded accusing.

"A family did, but it was held up and by that time they'd gone through a horrible separation and the agency wouldn't approve it. She was six then and after that she just got lost in the shuffle." It sounded like an explanation that Mr. Aherne had used countless times.

"Have you been on any dates since your wife died?" John couldn't tell if this was connected to Harvey's previous statements or if she had just changed tactics.

"No, none," Mr. Aherne replied. He sounded remarkably calm considering Sherlock had warned him about where this type of question would lead.

"I can't imagine no one has asked you. You're an attractive young man."

"Some women have. But right now my responsibility is to my children, and a woman who wants to date me won't necessarily feel the same way towards them. I can't say I'll be single the rest of my life, but right now I see no need to change it."

"You seem concerned about who spends time with your children, but you've testified you let your nine year old daughter walk a dog by herself."

"Well, a child that age needs some freedom. You can't wrap them in cotton wool their whole lives. And Rory is bigger than she is. I never considered that whoever wanted to harm her wouldn't use force to do it." He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his hand.

"The dog's bigger than your daughter and you let her walk him alone?" Once again, Harvey sounded angrier than the statement would indicate, as if he had confessed to making his daughter work in a sweatshop.

"He doesn't pull on the lead. He is very well-behaved. I made sure of that before I let Moira walk him by herself."

"Your flat only has three bedrooms?" Harvey asked, in one of her usual abrupt subject changes.

"Yes it does."

"But your older daughter has a room by herself. Don't tell me the other two share a room."

Mr. Aherne actually laughed, although it seemed driven by nerves. "No, they don't. Dierdre's got the sewing room as her room. It's tiny but she doesn't mind at all. She'd rather play where everyone else is anyway. Moira likes to be by herself at times."

"So you're the primary caretaker for your children?"

"Yes. As I said we have no relatives."

"You do everything for them?"

"Not everything, of course. As much as needs to be done that they can't do themselves."

"Have you seen your children without clothing?"

Mr. Aherne's eyes widened, and he clearly could tell where this was going. "Of course. I think it'd be impossible to have not when you've got three children, correct?"

"Do any of them still ask for assistance when bathing?"

"Two ten year olds and a six and a half year old? Not in years."

"Does that mean you haven't seen them without clothing in years?"

"Not quite that long, but I respect their privacy."

Harvey briefly made a face. "Do you think that you and your daughter have a close relationship?"

"Yes, we do. I believe so," he clarified.

"Do you think it was unusual that she wouldn't reveal the cause of her distress to you, especially since you seemed so aware of it?" As she spoke she moved closer to the stand.

"Moira's not a talker. She's not one to chatter about what she did all day, like her sister does. I was concerned that her distress was so extended and she never opened up about it, but at first it didn't seem that odd."

"You said before that you told your children that they won't get in trouble if they don't lie to you. Does that mean you don't discipline them?" She made it sound like he let his children run amok.

"Of course I discipline them." Mr. Aherne sounded offended. "I don't do that by yelling and screaming or make it so they're afraid to tell me the truth about something. It's not needed. Kieran and Moira sometimes tease Dierdre and telling them to stop is usually enough. If that doesn't work I can just take away time with the telly or pudding. That never fails."

"On the day that you took her to A&E, was there anything else going on at home, or was this an ordinary day?" Harvey now stood directly in front of him, looking him square in the eye.

"It was really ordinary. Moira and I had a bit of a row when she got home from school - she wanted to put on a dirty sweatsuit and I told her no. She yelled that she hated me and stormed out the door with Rory. When she came back she said she was sorry and that she didn't hate me, and I said I knew that. Other than that it was typical."

"When you found out in hospital what the problem was, how did you feel?"

"Shocked at first. It seemed so hard to believe - not that it could happen to one of my children, but that it was a secret for so long. Then Moira told me she didn't know who had done it. I thought she might be telling the truth, but the officers said that was unlikely."

"Did they discuss taking your children into care?"

"Some of the social service workers did, since they weren't sure who was responsible."

"How did you feel about that?"

"I didn't want them to go into care at all, but I said if they really felt that was the only way to protect her I'd let them go, which was true. My daughter's safety was the most important thing. Eventually they decided that since it clearly wasn't someone in the home she'd feel more secure there. I was told to keep an eye on her and I planned on doing that. No more walking the dog by herself."

"After you left her there, when you came back the next day, did she act any differently?"

"I'd brought some books and a picture of our family, which she was happy to get, but she did seem more anxious. Jumped every time someone came in."

"She refused to talk to the investigators, right?"

"She didn't refuse to talk to them. She just said she didn't know who'd hurt her," Mr. Aherne corrected.

"But she did talk to the man Sherlock Holmes, right?"

"Eventually, yes."

"She told him she didn't know as well?"

He shook his head. "No. The first time he talked to her, when she was still in hospital, he didn't even bring the subject up. I think that was what made her trust him."

"So she told him who was hurting her? Just like that?"

"No. He figured out that she was afraid of retaliation from her abuser and let her tell him what happened without saying anything about the person."

"When did she talk to him again?"

"The night our flat was broken into. He came over with the Yarders and talked with her."

"Do you think it's unusual that this man suddenly was able to make her talk about her ordeal?"

"No, for a lot of reasons. All the officers they sent in to talk to her were women. The one time they did send a man in to talk to her, he was a doctor, which wasn't any better."

Harvey looked frustrated. "Did you know that Mr. Holmes had been previously associated with who your daughter had picked out of the lineup?"

"Not until today, no," he replied.

"Do you think he might have influenced her to pick a particular person out?" John could see Clark in the defense station make some sort of motion with his hands.

"Of course not. I was there and she didn't even look in his direction before doing so."

This appeared to be enough for Harvey to throw in the towel. "No further questions," she said.

As she walked back to the bench, Judge Foster slammed down his gavel. "The time is now six in the evening and the court is dismissed for the day. We shall begin session tomorrow at nine AM."

John kept himself seated as the hordes of people filed out of the room, not wanting to get caught in the crush of the crowd. When almost everyone had left he stood to leave. Before he could walk out Lou filed past him. "Not as hard as I thought it would be," he said, motioning for John to follow him. "I tried to bring out Mr. Aherne's caring nature as much as I could; it'd be a lot harder to savage him on the stand that way." John fell into step with them and they went out into the main corridor.

"Are all the victims testifying?" John asked. They went through the doors and out into the city.

"Most of them. Victim Four and Victim Five won't be testifying for long, for different reasons, and Victims Six and Eight will be testifying on behalf of their siblings. Victim Fourteen or Fifteen will testify, but not both of them. Victim Eleven has limited English skills, so I'm not sure how much we'll get there." He paused for a moment. "Wait. Are you asking when we want Victim Three to testify?"

"It'd be nice to know," John admitted.

"Don't worry, he'll be the last one."

"Because you haven't met him?"

"No, because he's not part of the charges, just to indicate a pattern of behavior. After he's testified we'll bring in the investigators and some others. It'll be a while in any case. Victim One's going to be testifying next." Lou motioned for a cab. When one pulled up to the curb he said "I'll see you tomorrow," as he climbed in. John hailed a separate cab and rode silently back home. He considered picking up some takeaway, but there was enough food in the flat to eat now, and he wanted to get home as quickly as possible. He needed to see how Sherlock had done with all the trial coverage. Knowing him, he'd have picked up every newspaper in the city and watched every broadcast about it online.

Mrs. Hudson was there to greet him as he came in through the door. "I'm so glad you're home," she said. "We've had a parade of those homeless people in and out all day - they've all brought him newspapers - and the Rodgers boy arrived just after you left and only went when the trial was over." She didn't mention the effect the trial was having on Sherlock; there was no need.

"I'll see how he's doing," John said before heading up the stairs. He expected to find Sherlock on the couch with the television blaring and that in fact turned out to be the case. Not surprisingly, the news was on, even though it only discussed some minor political scandal. Sherlock was leaning on Hamish and didn't appear to be paying attention.

"Moira and her brother both did very well on the stand," John said as he walked to the refrigerator. He opened it and rummaged for something he could heat up for supper. Finding a carton of leftover Indian food, he stuck it in the microwave. "Mr. Aherne did well too; you could tell that the defense wasn't getting what they wanted out of him."

Sherlock looked over at him, then back to the television. John took that as a sign that he didn't want to talk about it and decided it might be best to leave him alone that evening. He sat down in his chair with his supper, ate it, and then read a novel he had started a few days ago. When he finished it was nearly eleven and Sherlock was still staring at the television screen. "Are you coming to bed?" John asked, hoping this wouldn't be one of those evenings where he paced all night long.

Sherlock said nothing, but stood up with Hamish in his arms and went up the stairs. John got dressed for bed in his own room, thinking that Sherlock needed the extra privacy more than ever, and when he went back down Sherlock had already curled himself around Hamish under the covers.

The trial must have been more draining than John had thought, because as soon as his head hit the pillow he fell asleep. He likely would have slept until morning without waking if he hadn't been awoken by an elbow to the ribs. At first he just thought that Sherlock was twisting around in his sleep, but as soon as he was fully aware of what was going on he was hit by a thrashing arm.

The next thing he knew he was being pushed out of bed. He quickly got to his feet and looked down at Sherlock, who seemed awake but was clearly not seeing what was going on around him. Before John could do anything else, Sherlock started to scream.


	35. Chapter 35

"No! Stop!" Sherlock's voice held a raw terror that John had never heard from him before. He thrashed around on the bed in a strange way that made him look bound with invisible chains.

"You're not being hurt. You're at home in your bedroom. I'm the only other one hear. Sherlock, it's John. Can you hear me?" John suddenly wished he had paid more attention in his psychology courses. He could only vaguely remember the few flashbacks he'd had and didn't know whether trying to talk him out of it was good or bad.

"Let me go! It hurts! Let me go!" Sherlock stared blankly into space as he struggled, like a sleepwalker. "Please just stop!"

"You are in your room, you are safe, and she is not with you." Maybe he'd come out of it quickly. He had last time.

He suddenly stopped struggling, arms and legs going limp. It didn't look like he'd come out of it, as he was still saying under his breath, "Stop stop stop stop stop..."

In the midst of his struggle, Hamish had been knocked out of the bed. John put him back next to Sherlock in hopes that the toy would bring him back, but it appeared to have no effect. He still pleaded with his attacker to stop. As his distress grew, he brought himself up to an almost sitting position. John kept trying to reassure him, but each minute seemed to make his distress worse. After a seemingly endless period of time, Sherlock's body jerked and he vomited all over himself and the blankets. He let out a cry and crumpled back on to the bed, curling up in a ball.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, not sure if he had really come out of it this time.

At first Sherlock appeared not to hear him, but something got through; after another minute he slowly turned his head to face John. "John?" he hoarsely replied.

"You were having a nightmare," John said as he came to stand next to him. He took hold of the blankets and threw them to the ground, then turned on the light.

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position again, this time clearly aware of what he was doing. He reached for Hamish with his left hand. Only when the bee was pulled to his side did he start to look around. He looked down at the front of his pajamas like he didn't know how he'd come to be covered in vomit. "I see," he said, although he clearly didn't.

"You'll need to take that stuff off so it can be put in the wash." John gave Hamish a look and was relieved to see the bee was clean. "If you want me to leave for that I will."

"Come back in a minute," Sherlock quietly said.

"I'll be right outside the door," John said before stepping into the hall. He shut the door behind him.

In a minute he heard from behind the door, "You can come back in," and John entered the room again. The pajamas had joined the blankets on the floor and the bed had been stripped of its sheets. John picked up the bundle without saying anything and headed downstairs. Sherlock and Hamish followed.

Once everything was in the wash John headed to the kitchen. He hoped that there was still some vanilla ice cream and was delighted to see that half a carton remained. He spooned it into a bowl and came back into the sitting room. He sat down next to him and handed him the bowl. "This'll make you feel better," he told Sherlock. "Tiny bites."

Sherlock put a tiny amount into his mouth. He ate the ice cream not like he was savoring it but rather like he found it as distasteful as a bowl of brussel sprouts. As he ate he rubbed Hamish with his free hand.

What John really wanted to ask him was what he'd been dreaming about, but he also knew that if he asked he'd be met at best with stony silence. "Do you want to take a shower after you finish that?" he said instead.

"Possibly," said Sherlock in a faint hoarse tone.

"You'll feel better if you do." John fell silent. He couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't about the nightmare.

They sat in silence while Sherlock slowly finished the ice cream. As soon as he was done, he said, "Shower," and walked back up the stairs. For some reason he'd left Hamish sitting on the sofa, and John picked up the bee when he headed back upstairs. He set him down by the bed and remade it with new sheets. Once he was done, he sat and listened to the shower running.

When after twenty minutes the shower was still running, he got up and headed to the door. He knocked on it, but got no response. "Sherlock?" he asked. No response. "Are you okay?" Still silence. "If you don't answer me in another minute I'll just come in there."

Apparently that threat was enough; the shower turned off. "I'm coming out," Sherlock said from behind the door. In a minute he emerged, skin red from scrubbing. John suspected that he would have scrubbed himself until he bled if he hadn't been interrupted, but he said nothing. They headed back to the room and got back into bed, like nothing had happened. John fell asleep quickly, and was half-aware sometime in the early morning Sherlock left the room, but it wasn't enough to rouse him before the alarm went off.

When he woke up, his first thought was that Phillip would be testifying today. It weighed heavily on his mind as he got dressed and went downstairs. To his surprise he could smell coffee, and instead of being curled up on the sofa, Sherlock was at the kitchen counter, typing furiously away on his laptop. Hamish sat next to the computer. "You made coffee?" John said in surprise. He poured himself a mug and drank it down quickly. Surprisingly, it was very good. John deliberately stood far enough away that he couldn't see the screen.

"I desired something caffeinated," he replied without looking away from the screen.

"Did you tell Phillip I'd be there in the court if he got nervous?"

"I did. However he doesn't have as strong a connection to you as Moira. I think he would only be reassured if I were there." Sherlock looked briefly away from the screen. "Your comment yesterday about Phillip's mother was very helpful."

"Is that what you're working on?" he asked.

"Indeed. His mobile is not registered in his mother's name. It is registered to a Bruce Rodgers. I also discovered that Phillip is registered at school as Phillip Benton, his mother's last name."

"Who do you think Bruce Rodgers is?"

"His father, of course. And I don't merely think it, I know it. In fact I have discovered that his father didn't desert him and has spent the last ten years trying to see his son. There are quite a few court documents relating to him and Phillip's mother Lisa Benton."

John had to sit down. Phillip was probably the most vulnerable of K's victims. Moira Aherne had her brother, father, and dog. All Phillip had was Sherlock. He had been afraid that even after the trial Phillip would still seek out another abuser so he could pretend he was loved. The idea he might have a caring parent to fill that need was amazing. "Let me guess, they weren't married."

"No, and the court has been lax about enforcing his visitation as such. He pays child support in addition to his son's mobile."

"I can't understand why his mother would be so cruel." John shook his head.

"I know you will see him in court today. Please don't tell him about this; I don't want him to be disappointed."

John could see Sherlock blink. He knew that Sherlock and Phillip were a lot alike and had developed a close bond even separate from the case, and he realized that Sherlock had always known his dead father couldn't come to save him like that. "If he's really spent ten years in court I think he'll be happy to see his son again. And it won't help his mother's case when Phillip testifies today. I mean, she knew he spent the night at K's flat."

"Correct. However there still might be legal issues. His mother's position has been that Phillip is not interested in a relationship with his father." Sherlock's tone made it clear what he thought of that argument. "Undoubtedly by this weekend I will have more information."

"You're going to help him fight for custody." It wasn't a question.

"Phillip needs someone to love him."

John did not mention that he already had someone - Sherlock. "He does need a caring parent," he said, aware that that was what he'd meant in the first place. A thought occurred to him. "All the victims. They're not just from homes with abusive or distant parents. All of them have a distant, absent, or abusive mother in them."

"Correct." He could tell from the way he said it that Sherlock had been aware of this for some time.

"K was that mother figure they wanted. She was there and didn't smack them around, so they all figured it was worth the sex." John knew perfectly well that Sherlock heard the unspoken _just like you_ at the end of the sentence.

"If you still wish to be at the trial early today, you should leave soon." Sherlock began typing furiously again.

"I'm going to leave in a minute." He picked up his wallet and headed out the door, the clatter the keyboard made echoing behind him.

Unlike yesterday, the driver of the cab he hailed seemed content to drive along in silence, the radio not even turned on. John welcomed the silence enough that he tipped the man more than he usually would. He walked up the steps to the courthouse and when he got to the top the door swung open and Susan was there to greet him. "John," she said cheerfully. "You're here. Lou should be coming with breakfast in a minute if you'd like to wait."

"That'd be fine, thanks," he said, and they walked into the courthouse together.

"Victim One's probably going to testify for most of the day. The doctor who treated him for the broken arm he had is the only other witness directly related to the case. She'll likely be fit in tomorrow. Victim One's a bit of a hard sell anyway."

"Because he's older?" John guessed.

Susan nodded. "The jury will see him as he is now, and wonder what was going on that he didn't fight back. And he also has to testify about what the defendant made him do to other children. That won't be easy."

John shuddered as he recalled both Phillip's fear he would be arrested and how even he had thought that if K had claimed to have been the victim he would have believed her. "You've got those pictures, though."

"That will help, no doubt about that. It's the biggest reminder we have of how small he was at first." Before she could say anything else, Lou came in through the doors and fell into step with them. He had a large bag in one hand and a drink holder in the other.

"Egg, bacon, and cheese sandwiches, and your cocoa of course," he said. "The same room is open today. Do you know if Victim One is here yet?"

"Last time I saw him he was throwing up in the bathroom," Susan replied. "He asked me to leave him alone."

Lou shook his head. "The poor boy." He reached into the bag and took out a wrapped sandwich. "Will you be eating with us, John?"

"I think I'll wait in the courtroom," John replied.

"One of these sandwiches has your name on it, in any event." Lou handed him the wrapped sandwich.

"Thanks," he told Lou, and walked into the courtroom. Just like yesterday the buffalo had already made themselves comfortable in their row. No members of the media appeared to have arrived yet. The buffalo ignored him as he sat down in the same place as yesterday and made short work of the sandwich. When he got up to throw away the wrapper, the media had started to trickle in. Knowing the routine made everything seem easier, and John found he could stay calm even when K and her solicitors came in and escorted her to the dock. The crowd that had assembled in the court seemed calmer than they had been the previous day. Lou and Susan quietly made their way in moments before the cry of, "Court rise!"

After Judge Foster had seated himself and asked both parties if they were ready, Lou made his way up to the stand. "The prosecution calls Phillip Rodgers." An usher led Phillip up to the stand. In fact, he was more leading him by the arm, as Phillip walked slowly, hesitantly. He looked petrified.

John got a good look at him once he was in the stand. He'd expected Phillip to be in a suit and was surprised to see he wore a dark navy jumper and khaki trousers. Once he'd gotten used to it, he realized why: it made Phillip look younger, emphasizing his more boyish features. His hair was neatly combed for once and not hanging over his eyes.

"Hello, Phillip," Lou said as soon as he was settled.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"How long have you lived in London?"

"My whole life."

"What year are you in school?"

"Year seven."

"Where have you gone in the city when you need medical treatment?" Even Lou looked uneasy.

"St. Bart's. The clinic there." Phillip shrank down in his chair as he spoke.

"Can you remember the first time you went there?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that."

"It was just after my fourth birthday. My mum hadn't even got a cake for me, and I was upset about that. She said I needed a checkup and she took me there. I remember thinking how big it was, that I hadn't seen something like that before. When the doctor came out to see me She told my mum that she didn't need to stick around and if she came back in half an hour it'd be fine. She took me into the exam room and took off that white coat that doctors wear and hung it up. I could see then Her blouse was kind of open, and you could see Her, uh, breasts. Just part of them. I wanted to tell Her about it since She didn't seem to notice, but I didn't want her to know I'd been looking. She told me to take my clothes off and get on the bench and I did. Then it was mostly just normal stuff in a medical but at the end She put her hand down my pants and said to me that no one should ever touch me there but a parent or a doctor. Then She just rubbed me for a few minutes."

"Did she explain why she was doing that?" Lou had lost his earlier uneasy look and seemed more matter-of-fact.

"No. I just thought it was part of the medical, since you have to get undressed and all." His face reddened.

"When was the next time you saw the doctor?" Lou asked.

"A few days later. It wasn't at the clinic, though. Mum'd been yelling at me all day and I walked out of the flat. There was a park down the street and it didn't have a play yard or anything but there was one of those little round shelters there and I liked to go under it and daydream. I'd been there a few minutes and I heard Her asking what I was doing hiding under there." Phillip broke eye contact with Lou and looked at the floor.

"What did you do then?"

"I told Her I wasn't hiding and I came there to play. She said to me that I could probably have a lot more fun somewhere else. Then She asked if I liked ice cream." He paused. "I came out then and said I did. When I saw Her She was wearing a different blouse, with flowers on it and a lot of buttons. Only a few were done up, so you could see most of Her breasts, even more than from before."

"Did you say anything to her about that?"

"No. But She must have known I was looking. She knelt down and asked me to help Her with the buttons. She wasn't wearing a bra either, so when I did them up I touched Her breasts. Once I did that She grabbed my wrist and said that I had to ask before doing something like that."

"Were you intentionally touching her breasts?"

"Not really. I hadn't really seen anything like that up close and I wondered what they felt like but I wasn't trying to grab them."

John couldn't help but take a deep breath. When he'd heard Phillip tell Sherlock of that incident, he'd suspected that Phillip hadn't just taken his hand and shoved it down K's blouse, but he assumed she'd just asked him to do it. Seeing how she had essentially wordlessly manipulated him into it was frighteningly cold.

Lou's voice broke him out of his thoughts. "What did she say after that?"

Phillip looked up briefly before speaking. "That.. She asked me if my mum knew where I was. I told Her that she knew and didn't care. She said it was horrible when your mum or dad didn't love you. I liked hearing that. Because even when I was little I knew Mum didn't love me. I'd pretend my dad would come to take me away sometimes, but after Mum told me he'd run off and didn't want anything to do with me a bunch of times I stopped that. She said She could try to do things like a mum would for me."

"And after that what happened?"

"We did get an ice cream. We went back to the park to eat it. We sat inside the place I had hidden under. Then She said that it was a good thing I'd shown Her how I couldn't control myself, because She liked me."

"Did you know what she was talking about?"

"Not really." Since Phillip had kept his head lowered for so long, his hair once again hung in his eyes. "She said that She'd try to help me with that, and She hoped She'd see me soon. Then She took a tissue and wiped the ice cream off my face, and She left. I went home then."

John wasn't sure how he managed to hear it, since the door wasn't particularly noisy. But he did hear the faint creak of a door opening and he looked towards the back of the court, wondering why someone would be coming in when the trial was ongoing. A man stood in the doorway. He scanned the courtroom, and scowled. He shut the door and vanished. While that was strange enough, what really stood out to him was the man's black hair hanging in his eyes. It took him only a second to make the connection.

The man looked just like Phillip.


	36. Chapter 36

AN: I've decided that I'll post all remaining chapters unbetaed, and will post the betaed ones as soon as I get them, as to not leave my readers hanging.

Also, I am in need of dental treatment, and have started a fundraiser to raise the money. You can see it here at my tumblr: post/47331119522/guess-who-needs-dental-work-she-c ant-afford

John could only manage to be shocked for a second or two, because Lou once again spoke. "Do you remember when you saw her next?"

"At Bart's again. A few days later."

"With your mother? Another medical visit?"

"No."

"Why did you go there, then?" Lou inquired.

"I wanted to see Her again and I knew She worked there. Mum was at work and the sitter I had was an old lady who fell asleep a lot. Our flat's pretty close by, so I just walked there." At this point Phillip's hair curtained his face.

"Tell me what happened after that."

"I just walked in there and when I heard Her voice I headed towards that exam room. She had just seen a patient out and when She saw me She smiled. She said it was a pleasant surprise to see me and She gave me a hug. I liked that. Then She said she had a little free time and would I want to come with Her, and I did. I think we went to one of the empty rooms. Once we were in there She sat down in a chair and told me I could sit in Her lap. My mum never let me do that, so I did." He paused and took a few deep breaths. "At first She just was rubbing my back and I liked that. After a minute or two She put Her hand down my trousers and inside my pants. I didn't like that much. It felt... strange."

Phillip had to stop to compose himself again, and in that time someone let out a guffaw. John looked around trying to find the idiot who'd dare laugh at something like that, but whoever it was hadn't moved. Judge Foster scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes. "Who was that? Who's daring to disrupt this courtroom?" Not surprisingly, no one responded. "Let it be known right now that if anyone disrupts this trial like that again I won't hesitate to hold them in contempt." After one more intimidating stare, he said: "The witness may continue."

Phillip spoke again, hesitantly. "She did that the whole time I was in Her lap and I didn't say anything about it because I didn't want to get up. Finally She said She had to go back to work, and I got up and went back home."

"Did you go back there on your own again?"

Phillip nodded. "Yeah. A few times. The last time I did She said She was just about to go back home and I could come with Her if I kept my eyes shut. I went out with Her to Her car and shut my eyes until we were in Her flat. She got me some biscuits and a glass of orange squash. I ate that and She said we should probably ring my mum, since she'd want to know where I was. I knew she wouldn't care, but I let Her anyway. She rang Mum and told her that She'd found me outside and took me back to Her flat and I was behaving myself. I don't know what Mum said to Her, but when She hung up She said She just had to bring me back for dinner."

"Do you remember what happened after she rang your mother?"

"She asked if I wanted to sit in Her lap and I did, so I got up and sat down with Her. She asked me what I liked to do best and I said coloring. She said that the next time I came over She'd get me some nice crayons, the ones with almost a hundred colors. I'd never had those before and I told Her thank you."

"When you were sitting in her lap, is that the only way you were touching?"

"No," Phillip whispered. "It was just like the other times and She had Her hand down my pants. She had the same blouse on, the flowered one, and it was unbuttoned, mostly. My head was against Her breasts and this time She said something about it."

"What did she say?"

"She asked me if I knew how mums fed babies."

"Did you know?"

"Not then. I told Her that I didn't know."

Phillip was silent for so long after that Lou had to prod him with "What happened then?"

"She told me how they did. She said then that if I did that we could both pretend She was my mummy." Phillip currently looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. "I did, a little." A very long pause. "Then She told me to shut my eyes again and She took me out of the flat and when I opened my eyes again I was back home."

"Did you go to that flat again?"

"Yeah."

"Did you go to her work again to see her?"

"No. What She did was I'd go to the park and sit in the thing I used to hide under. She'd tell me to close my eyes and we'd go for a ride in Her car for a while. When I was allowed to open them again we'd be in Her flat."

"What happened when you were there?"

"At first it seemed really nice. She'd always have stuff for me to color and draw with and She'd give me biscuits and lemonade. I got to sit in Her lap and She'd touch me like She did before. For the first few times that was all She did. After that She asked me if I knew how to kiss someone, and I said I didn't. I hadn't known how to hug someone before, either, and She'd taught me that. Where the arms go and everything, since I couldn't figure it out." It was hardly the worst thing Phillip had mentioned so far, but apparently it affected the audience; John heard a few gasps of horror. "So She said She'd teach me that too."

"What happened after that?" Lou asked.

"At first She just kissed me on the lips, and She would tell me how to kiss Her back. Then..." He paused for so long that John thought Lou would prompt him, but eventually he began speaking again on his own. "Once She said I'd gotten good at that She started to teach me how to kiss with Her tongue in my mouth. She said She could tell how much I liked it."

"Did you think you liked it?"

"I don't know," Phillip said slowly.

"Did she teach you anything else after that?"

"Yeah." Phillip had now turned a deep crimson. "After a bunch of lessons like that She said something about how adults kiss. She said they didn't just kiss on the mouth, but on the whole body. For a while She'd take off most of Her clothes and tell me where to kiss Her. Once I'd done that a few times She'd do the same to me. Then one time when She was doing that to me She took my pants off and kissed my penis. She asked me if I liked that and I said I did. It felt weird but I thought if I said I didn't like it She wouldn't be my friend anymore. She said since I liked it so much I could do the same for Her, and I did." He buried his head in his hands for a minute before speaking again. "So I did that. She really liked it and told me that She loved me for making Her feel so good. I said I loved Her too and She said then when I was at Her flat we could pretend that She was my mummy."

On that disturbing note, Judge Foster broke in with "The court will adjourn for one hour." Phillip was led away by an usher and the rest of the courtroom filed out the door.

John went out in the crush of people but stopped when he saw the same man from before sitting on a bench. He waited until the crowd had filed off to the cafeteria or outside before taking a gamble and saying "Mr. Rodgers?"

The man turned to look at him. "Who are you?"

"My name's John Watson. I know you've been speaking to Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he mentioned me?"

A look of recognition passed over the man's face. "Yes, he did say something about you."

"Would you like to get something to eat? Not in this courtroom, I mean," John added. "We can talk if you'd like."

Mr. Rodgers nodded, and the two of them went to a small burger place nearby. "I don't know Phillip as well as Sherlock does, you know," John warned after they got their food and sat down.

"This is the last picture I have of Phillip," Mr Rodgers said as he put a photograph on the table. It showed a black-haired boy barely out of toddlerhood examining a music stand. He smiled in the photo, something John hadn't seen Phillip do in real life. "I play for an orchestra and he always loved to come to work with me."

"He plays the flute, you know," John told him.

"So I was told." Mr. Rodgers looks down at the photograph. "In all these years, I've kept telling myself 'At least he's happy.' Not seeing him was hard enough. I refused to think he was anything else but happy."

"Do you have any idea why his mother's so dead against you seeing him, especially because she let you see him at first?"

Mr. Rodgers sighed. "We weren't together long. Once she got pregnant with Phillip she wanted us to get married. I refused; I knew a relationship between the two of us wouldn't work out. Then the ultrasounds showed a girl, and she got excited. When Phillip was born she was very disappointed."

"She wanted a girl just like her," John guessed.

"And she got a boy that looked just like me."

"But you still saw him for three years."

"She thought if she just kept asking I'd marry her. I think she just wanted the security of two incomes and not because she was in love. Around Phillip's third birthday she figured out I was never going to accept. I usually saw him twice a week and when I went to her flat at the usual time there was no one there." His face was full of anguish. "I got a court date and she showed up. Said she wasn't interested in me seeing Phillip anymore. That was the beginning of ten years of fighting."

"I would think that you'd have a pretty good chance of getting custody of him now," John said.

"I'd give up any rights I could have if I could have spared him all this."

"Sherlock's going to help you with that, right?"

"Yes. I knew that it was a bad idea to come to court today but I just wanted to see my boy again."

"He's really a sweet kid," John said, and meant it. "Even with all that's going on."

Mr. Rodgers just nodded sadly. They ate in silence. After finishing they both left, and John felt glad that Mr. Rodgers walked off in the opposite direction of the courthouse. He could only imagine the testimony getting worse.

John managed to find his previous seat and settle himself before the prosecution entered the room. Lou came up to the front as the usher led Phillip back up to the stand. Even from this far back John could see he had a ghostly pallor. Lou remained his usual relaxed self. "You mentioned being taught how to kiss before. Did she teach you anything else?"

In a very small voice Phillip said: "Yeah. It had been a while since I had met Her because I told her my fifth birthday was coming up. She got all excited and said She'd have a cake and presents for me. And She did. She got me some paints and a big layer cake. There were party hats and streamers and everything. Then She said that I'd get another present if we went to Her room. I did. I thought that was special because I'd only been in there a few times before. We always cuddled and stuff on the sofa. When I got in there She told me to take off all my clothes and lie down on the bed. I did and She took off Her clothes and lay down next to me. She said She was going to teach me to hug like grownups did." He shrank down in his chair.

"What happened after that?" Lou asked. The courtroom was deadly silent.

Even before Phillip started to respond, John knew what he would say. He'd heard all sorts of terrible things at this point, but that still made him feel ill. Presenting violation as some sort of gift topped every twisted thing K had done at this point. _How did you even plan something like that?_ John wondered silently. _What would you say? "Happy birthday, my gift is raping you?"_ It was even more twisted when you remembered it was his fifth birthday, when Phillip probably still believed in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

"She started touching my penis. She'd done that before but this time it started to get bigger. It might have before but since I always had at least pants on I didn't see it. After She did that for a bit She lay down on top of me. She kissed me for a bit and then started to move around, pushing me into the mattress. The whole time She had her arms around me. She did that for a while and then made a grunting sound. She stopped pushing me down but stayed on top of me. I felt like I was being crushed. She rolled off me after a little bit and stayed next to me. We were still kissing. I had all this slimy stuff I could feel between my legs."

"Did she ever do that again?"

Phillip slumped in his chair more before responding. "A lot of times. For the next few years She'd pick me up and take me to the flat a few times a week. Sometimes we'd meet at the park and sometimes She'd get me from school. Mum never picked me up there so I had to walk home. Mum did ask Her once if I was annoying Her and She said I was behaving myself."

"You said 'the next few years.' Did you stop seeing her after that?"

"No. It just... changed."

The courtroom was so silent John could hear Phillip breathing into the microphone. "Tell me about how it changed," Lou prompted.

"At first it was just new things She wanted to do. She started saying if I wanted to keep coming over I'd have to ask for what we were doing. She really liked it when I said 'Please fuck me,' and sometimes She liked it if I added 'Mummy' to that. She had things She wanted me to put in her. Then one day after school She picked me up and said She had a surprise for me. I had to keep my eyes shut even in the flat until we got to the bedroom. When I opened my eyes I saw a little boy lying there."

"How old do you think he was?"

"Little. Three or four maybe."

"What was he doing on the bed?"

"Nothing. He was sleeping."

"What did he look like?"

"He had blond hair and wasn't wearing any clothes."

"What happened after you saw him?"

"She told me to take my clothes off and lie on the bed with him. I did, and She said that he'd really like it if I kissed him on his penis. I didn't think he would, since I didn't like it, but when I didn't do it right away She said that if I didn't She might not want to be my friend anymore. So I did it. I could hear a camera click while I did it. I'd seen her taking pictures of us before and..." He turned away from the microphone and said something to Lou. Lou motioned to the judge and he spoke.

"The court will adjourn for five minutes," he announced.

As the audience filed out once more, John noticed that most of them appeared to be in a state of shock. Whoever had laughed before certainly wasn't laughing now. In fact, no one appeared to be speaking at all. He waited in silence with the rest of them and when the time was up filed back into court with the rest of them.

Phillip looked no better than before, but when Lou nodded at him he began to speak again. "When She told me to stop She told me not to leave the room. She picked up the little boy and left. I could hear Her talking to someone and then I heard the door shut."

"Did she say anything to you after that?"

"When She came back to the room She said that She was really happy I'd been so good. I asked Her if I was going to have to do that again. You have no idea how much I didn't want to. But She asked me if I still wanted to be Her friend, and I said I did. The kids at school all make fun of me, and without Her I wouldn't have any friends. She said then that She was just trying to make sure I got it all out so I wouldn't hurt anyone." He slumped down in his chair.

"What do you mean by 'get it all out?' Is that something she said to you before?" Lou asked.

"Yeah. She told me before that when I first met Her I couldn't control myself and if I didn't get all that urge out I'd attack people."

"Attack them? Physically?"

"No, like sex attacks." Phillip looked again like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. "She said She knew that because of my touching Her when we met first even though She hadn't given me permission."

"So she said that if you had sex with her it would make you not attack anyone?"

"Yeah."

"And that boy had something to do with that?"

"She said I got to be too much for Her sometimes. I kind of did. Because after we did those things She'd let me sit in Her lap and cuddle. And I really did like that. I'd do anything so we could. I'd have gone there every day if I got that. She even let me spend the night there sometimes. My mum liked that too. I think she liked it when I was out of the house." Someone in the courtroom gave an audible sob. "But She said She couldn't do that much and I'd just have to come there sometimes. She said She'd bring other people there."

"Adults, or children?"

"All kids."

"Boys or girls?"

"Both."

"What ages?"

"Sometimes they were younger than me and sometimes they were the same age or a little older."

"What would happen when those other children came there?"

"Different things. Sometimes I'd just go there with Her and the kid would be in the bedroom and I'd do things with them. Other times they'd be sitting in the living room. I'd talk to them or play some game. She always gave us something to drink – squash or lemonade or Coke. I got a regular drink but She'd add some white powder to to the other one. The kid that would drink it would get sleepy and we'd go to the bedroom. Sometimes She just took pictures and sometimes She'd get on the bed too. The other kid sometimes just slept through it all but other times they were awake and some of them would cry."

"How often did this happen?"

"Once or twice a week."

"Did you spend time with her alone after that?"

"Yeah. She kept wanting to try new things out. Every few months  
She had something new. She started tying a blindfold on me. After that She'd use these scarves to tie me to the bed. Then She tied me there with rope, and later handcuffs." As Phillip paused the courtroom filled with gasps and sobs. "She tied me there with those face down after a while, and She'd stick things up me. They always hurt a lot and She'd gag me so I couldn't scream."

John felt lost for words, and didn't know how Lou could remain so calm. He said: "And every few months there would be something new?"

Phillip nodded. "Yeah. Like those things. And She wanted me to do more and more before we got to cuddle. I'd have to lick between Her legs a bunch of times, and not just once. My jaw hurt from keeping it open so long. She used to just ask me to put a finger there, or my penis, but She'd make me do more and more. I had to use both hands, one to rub Her and the other one to stick my fingers in Her. She liked me to put them in both spots."

"The vagina and the anus?" Lou clarified.

"Yeah."

"Was there a point where it stopped escalating?"

"Sort of."

"Tell me what you mean by that."

Another long period of silence. Just when John thought Lou was going to ask for another break, Phillip responded in a very quiet voice. "When I was about eleven I started to grow a lot. I knew what that meant and I'd be shaving soon, things like that. And my voice kept breaking. She noticed that and said we'd better be careful, because I could make Her pregnant soon. And once later, when She was on top of me like usual, I, uh…"

"Ejacluated?" Lou said for him.

"Yeah. That made Her really angry. She said if I got Her pregnant She'd call the police and tell them what we'd been doing and they'd arrest me and take me to jail. She hit me and told me to lick Her between Her legs like I usually did except there was more stuff there. It tasted awful, worse than before, and as soon as I was done I threw up on the carpet." John shivered when Phillip said that, remembering the nightmare of the previous night. Had Sherlock remembered something that terrible? "She just laughed and said it served me right. I hoped it wouldn't happen again but She liked it and made me do it as much as I could. She'd get angry with me more, and said I was useless and a terrible fuck and She didn't know why She bothered with me. I'd beg Her to let me stay, tell Her I'd do better, but She kept yelling every time. She'd bring other kids there more of the time and this time She wouldn't give them a drink and they'd be awake. Sometimes they were crying." His voice was heavy with shame. John didn't need to glance around to tell most of the people in the courtroom were crying as well.

"On January third you came to the clinic at St. Bart's for treatment. Can you tell me about that?" Lou seemed to be the only one that was calm at this point.

"Yeah," Phillip replied, and he told the story of K breaking his arm and telling him he was only one of a hundred. "When I got there the doctor who saw me asked how I'd broken it. I said I'd been fighting with a friend, wrestling. She said something and I realized she didn't believe me and I wanted to run before she rang the police, but my arm needed to be fixed. The doctor took some x-rays and gave me a shot of something. After a bit she took the form I had to fill out and asked me if it was true that I was sexually active. I said it was. She asked me who it was and I said I didn't know. I thought that if she found out about Her I'd get put in jail. Once they put a cast on my arm the doctor said I could go but right after that she asked me 'Did he hurt anyone else besides you?' I wasn't really paying attention and I said that I was just one in a hundred. I realized what I'd said but since the doctor said he I figured she wouldn't be able to find out anything else."

"Did you say anything to anyone else there about it?"

"No. I kept my mouth shut most of the time. The next time I saw Her She said She was sorry though. It was a little better for a while after that. I got to cuddle more and there were no kids or ropes or sticking things in me."

Lou then looked at his watch. John did the same and realized there was only an hour to go before the session ended. "On Thursday, February 17, you didn't go to school."

"Yeah," Phillip said.

"Why?"

"I was tired of getting teased there. The kids asked me all sorts of things about my broken arm and when I wouldn't say how I'd got it they'd make all sorts of nasty things up. I went to the park and sat in the shelter I used to hide under. I'd have stayed there all day but a police officer came by and asked me why I wasn't in school. When I didn't say anything he took me down to the station. As soon as I got there this other man asked who I was and when I told him my name he said that he needed to talk to me. I got really scared then because I was sure he was going to arrest me."

"What did he do?"

"He said he was DI Lestrade and that he wanted to ask me about my arm getting broken. I didn't tell him. I didn't say anything. Then a few minutes later two other men came in and he told them who I was. One of them, his name's Sherlock Holmes, mentioned which arm I'd broken, when I hadn't told him, and he said I played one of the woodwinds. Which I do, the flute. The DI left with some other men and I was alone in the room with him. He put a tape recorder out and we started talking."

"Why did you talk to Mr. Holmes and not the DI?"

"I didn't think he'd arrest me. And he didn't start asking the same things right away. We just talked for a bit. I was the one who brought up my arm."

"So you told him what had happened?"

"Some of it. Not the whole thing."

"Did you talk to Mr. Holmes again?"

"A bunch of times."

"Why?"

"He was nice. He said he'd help me if I was arrested and he knew what I was going through. He'd tell me how he felt and I'd felt the same way too."

"Early on February twenty-six, you gave Mr. Holmes a piece of paper. Can you tell me about that?"

"Yeah. It was a receipt from a supermarket, and it was one of those with those savings cards. Her name and address was on it. I knew Her name but not where She lived." He went on to tell the same story he'd told Sherlock about remembering Jennifer and wanting her to be safe. "I knew he was looking for a place to find Her and if I gave it to him he'd help."

Lou smiled and went for the kill. "Is the woman who you say hurt you in this court today?"

"Yes," Phillip whispered.

"Can you point her out?"

Phillip hesitated, and pointed a shaking finger to the dock. "No further questions," Lou said triumphantly.

Just like the previous day, Judge Foster slammed down his gavel. "The time is now six in the evening and the court is dismissed for the day. We shall begin session Monday at nine AM."

It was only after he spoke that John was reminded that today was a Friday. Phillip would have to come back on Monday for the cross-examination. Unlike yesterday, he left quickly, feeling anxious. He hailed a cab and headed back home. Conversations with Sherlock from before floated into his mind, and he prayed that once he got there Sherlock would not have done anything stupid.

It turned out not to be an issue at all. "He's been gone for hours," Mrs. Hudson informed him as he was ascending the stairs. Since Sherlock had taken to vanishing for hours over the last few months, that didn't seem odd. The television was still on, now playing the news. Trial news. A reporter informed viewers that Victim One had testified that day, and before he read part of his testimony the reporter warned viewers that they might find the transcript disturbing.

"Imagine how he must have felt, then," John commented as he flopped on the sofa. A few minutes later his mobile rang.

The voice on the other end sounded familiar, but John couldn't place it. "This is John Watson, right?" It sounded like a woman.

"Yes."

"This is Gloria Yellowfox." Immediately John remembered the woman who had come in with the Spencer family. "I know this is forward, but since the trial's going on…"

"What are you calling for?" John asked, cutting her off.

"Well. This is Graham's idea, really, but I know how hard it can be living with someone who's trying to process all of this. There's a group I go to, for those close to surviviors. It meets on Sunday afternoons. I don't know if it would be something you're interested in."

John never thought he'd find himself agreeing to go to a support group, but Gloria was right: this was hard. "I'd like to see what it's like," he told her.

"I'll give you the address and I'll meet you in front of the building." She gave him an address a few miles away, said "I'll see you then," and hung up.

Without Sherlock sulking around or otherwise making himself noticed, John was able to have a fairly quiet evening. He put on one of his jumpers, as the evening was cool, ate a bowl of cereal for supper, and watched a few of those trashy programs Sherlock always made comments about (although he stayed in the room watching them anyway). Since he didn't have to go to work or the trial the next day, he lost track of the time. It was around one in the morning when he heard footsteps.

He'd assumed Sherlock would be gone all night, so he was a bit surprised to hear a key turning in the door. Sherlock stumbled in without his usual grace. "John! It's time!" he barked out and made his way over to the sofa.

"Time for what?" he asked, not liking Sherlock's wild-eyed appearance.

"For me to do it!" Sherlock firmly replied.

Before John could even process what was going on, Sherlock had knelt down in front of him and was grabbing at his belt. He undid the buckle, opened the button on the front of his trousers, and would probably have gone for the zipper if John hadn't grabbed his hands and forced them on either side of him. "What are you doing?" he said in horror.

"I'm going to take our relationship to the next step."

"Sherlock, you had to get drunk to even try to kiss me." It occurred to him. "You're high."

"Enough to finally do something. It's the one thing I could never do with Her so I thought that would be safe."

"I don't want to do anything you don't want to do. That you want to under the influence of substances," John clarified.

"But if I can't it'll never work!" Sherlock howled in despair.

"What do you mean?"

"If you're going to be in a relationship with me you'll want sex! You enjoy it! If I don't give it to you you will leave!"

"I'm not going to leave," John said. Before he could think about it he spoke again. "I love you."

Sherlock's entire body crumbled as soon as he heard that. "She did too and I made Her leave."

"No you didn't," John said, without addressing any of the other issues in the remark.

"I can't just do it the normal way. I had to try something," he whispered.

John felt lost for words, so he acted on instinct. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him in for a hug. At first Sherlock was as stiff as a board, but when John didn't let go, he began to relax by increment. Once he had relaxed some, John got another look at his face and realized Sherlock was silently crying. That he never had expected to see. He didn't say anything about it, but pulled him up on to the sofa so Sherlock's head rested against his shoulder.

They sit there like that, John holding Sherlock, rocking him slightly, letting his tears wet John's jumper. John murmurs quiet declarations of affection until Sherlock's breathing easens and he falls asleep. A few minutes later, John follows him into sleep.


	37. Chapter 37

While John hadn't expected to wake before Sherlock, he did so. Sherlock was still sleeping draped over him, head resting on his shoulder. He found himself suddenly wishing that the group Gloria had mentioned met today; he was way in over his head. But at the same time he was determined he and Sherlock would ride this out together.

Sherlock stirred, and he froze. Although he knew that they'd have to talk once he woke up, John needed a few more minutes to come up with something to say. It turned out to be a nonissue, as Sherlock fell back into sleep. He went back to thinking about what to do next. He'd tell Sherlock about the group, of course, but he knew the chance of getting Sherlock into any kind of therapy at all was nil. Maybe the group would have ideas about how to make the idea more palatable.

Once again Sherlock stirred, and this time it was for real. At first he just stared dazedly at John, trying to place himself, fighting out of the fog of sleep. Then something clicked and the look on his face changed from confusion to sheer unadulterated terror. He jerked himself into a sitting position and was clearly preparing to flee. "Sherlock," John said, hoping to calm him down without having to restrain him. "You don't need to panic. Take some deep breaths."

Sherlock did nothing of the sort but didn't flee. He still looked terrified. He started to feel around with his free hand and John guessed he was looking for Hamish.

"He's upstairs."

"That's where I'm going, then," Sherlock said in a hoarse whisper.

"Only if I'm allowed to come with you. We need to talk."

"You're going to make me see someone, aren't you?" The terror in Sherlock's voice made him start to shake. "Because I won't. I'll run away, I'll live on the street, I'll stay away forever."

There was no doubt in John's mind that he meant what he was saying. "No. I'm not. If you don't want to see a therapist it'd be stupid to force you to. I am going to a group though."

"But I don't have to come?"

As soon as John reassured him, "No, you don't," his body sagged in relief. John quickly said, "And just so you know, a relationship with me doesn't have to involve sex."

John expected Sherlock to try to bolt again, but he didn't. He merely looked away and mumbled, "Yes, it does."

"No, it does not," he firmly replied.

"Because it's not a romantic one."

"Yes, it is. No, it doesn't."

"You like sex." Sherlock still looked away from him.

"Yes, but you very obviously do not." John couldn't tell if it was a good sign or not that Sherlock was avoiding the implications their relationship was now a romantic one.

"It's something you need."

"To a degree, yeah, but that doesn't mean I can't go without it. The army's basically one long enforced period of abstinence."

"But not for the rest of your life," Sherlock quietly said.

"If it gets to be that long we'll find a way to deal with it." John sincerely hoped it would not be that long.

"When does this group meet?"

"Tomorrow. And you're not changing the subject that easily."

"I can't give you what you need."

Surprised that Sherlock had willingly gone back to the original subject, John responded with, "You already are."

"Not all of it." Sherlock shifted again, trying to move away.

"You can go get Hamish if you'll come back down," John said, figuring the bee might help him relax. Sherlock lept to his feet and John could hear him racing up the stairs. He half expected him to not come back and was surprised when he heard someone coming down the stairs. Sherlock walked in front of the sofa and sat down next to John, holding the bee in his lap like a frightened child might, seeking the comfort of the soft toy. John began to speak again. "I know that you've talked yourself into believing that a relationship with me is impossible. It's not. I also know you're interested in one. Right now I want you to understand that that is my choice, not yours."

"Did you mean it?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Mean what?" John said in confusion.

"What you said. Last night."

It dawned on John what he meant. "That I love you? Yes. Both romantically and as a friend," he added, to prevent what he was sure was the next question. "That's the reason I hate to see you like this. You shouldn't have to get high to drive her out of your brain when it's me. And I'd like to try to help you with that. That's why I want to go to this group." Not wanting to push the issue further, John changed the subject. "How long have you been using again?"

"Since I was taken off the case." He placed his head down on Hamish.

"Were you ever going to tell me this?"

"Maybe after the trial was over."

"Is there anything in the flat right now to use?"

"Used it right away."

It occured to John that Sherlock's sleepless nights of pacing were probably due to cocaine-induced hyperactivity. "When you were in rehab, last. Didn't they have therapy groups there? Did anyone ask you about your past there?"

"They had them. They talked but I didn't listen. I went away. I don't remember."

"You left the group?"

"No. I sat there. I just went away. Far off. Like I sometimes did with Her."

Now John understood. Sherlock had apparently gone into a disassociative state as soon as the subject of childhood abuse came up. "I think we both need something to eat."

"You're not angry with me?" The way he said it, combined with the stuffed toy he continued to be wrapped him around, made him seem like a scolded child.

"No. It hurts me to see you in this much pain, but I'm not angry with you." _Much_, John silently thought. From the look on Sherlock's face he wasn't sure if it had registered, but he got up and went to the kitchen anyway. He felt far too exhausted to make anything more than tea and toast, and even that seemed a great effort. "Eat at least one slice," John ordered Sherlock when he returned with the food. Sherlock made a face but did slowly eat one slice.

The day passed by like molasses. John couldn't remember a longer one, and he remembered some very long Christmas eves from when he was a child. Sherlock didn't try to talk to him any more, and just sat in his chair staring out the window. John read, watched television, and went to bed at a ridiculously early hour - in his own room.

When he woke up the next day he wished the group met at nine and not noon just so he could be there more quickly. But thinking like that wouldn't make the time pass, so he got dressed and headed downstairs. To his surprise Sherlock was lying on the sofa, Hamish perched on his chest. "When does this group meet?" He spoke in a monotone.

"Noon."

"Where?"

"Not too far from where the Ahernes live. A group member is going to meet me in front of the building."

"What is this group for?"

"People who are close to survivors." The word "survivors" left a bad taste in John's mouth.

Sherlock said nothing in response, and simply curled up again, face to sofa, Hamish in his arms. He didn't say a word as John made himself eat breakfast and watched crap telly until it was time for him to leave.

When he left Sherlock didn't say anything and John felt almost glad for the silence. He walked the whole way there, because after all this he needed the exercise. It managed to create enough mental static so he didn't think about anything else the whole way there.

Gloria was in front of the building, just like she said she would be. "Good to see you," she told him.

"Is this group expecting me?" he asked her.

She nods. "I've told the therapist there I'm bringing someone new."

"How many other people are there?"

"Six usually, not counting me." She gestured for him to follow her and they both headed into the building. "We're near the top." She pressed the button for the lift. It arrived in almost no time at all and they got in. Gloria pushed the button for the ninth floor and they ascended silently. Once the door opened again, she walked out and headed across the hall to a frosted glass door with Mitchell Dodson Ph.D, BASW written on it. Gloria opened the door. She led John into the waiting room. A short, balding, blond man stood there. John assumed he was a group member.

"Gloria," he said. "This is John? The one you were bringing?" He had a low, kind voice.

"Yes. John, this is Doctor Dodson."

"Hello, John." Dr. Dodson smiled at him. "Come on in."

Gloria followed Dr. Dodson into the next room, where six other people sat in a circle of ten chairs. "Gloria's brought a new person today," Dr. Dodson said as he sat down in a chair off to the side of the circle.

"John, this is Eli, Peter, Mari, Tammie, Jason, and Rodney," Gloria said, gesturing to each one in turn. "Have a seat." She sat down in one of the vacant chairs. John settled himself down into the one chair no one sat on either side of.

Eli, a man about ten years older than him with dark curly hair, appeared to notice John's discomfort. "I know this can be all a bit overwhelming," he said.

"If you just want to listen your first meeting that's okay," said Mari, a heavyset woman with bright red hair.

"Can I do that?" John said, more to himself than anyone in the group.

"If you want to keep coming here you'll have to participate, but just listening for a meeting or two is perfectly fine," Dr. Dodson said. John nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything. "Does anyone have something they want to bring up first?" he continued.

Eli spoke up. "I don't have anything I need to bring up about my situation right now, but I'm curious how Jason is doing."

Jason, a very tall dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks, sighed. "I'm really not sure at this point. The kids are wondering why their mum seems so sad and I don't know what to say."

"Because you're not too sure about it yourself," Mari said.

"That's true," he admitted.

"Well, her father's dead, right? So it's not an issue of explaining why they can't visit him anymore?" asked Eli.

Jason nodded. "Do you think they're too young for an explanation?"

"How old are they, again?" Peter, a man with long dark hair, a beard, and glasses, asked.

"The oldest is eleven, and the others are four, six, and seven."

"The eleven year old should know the truth, I think," Mari commented. "If your wife's okay with telling them that. The others are really too young. Tell them she's sad because of some things she's remembering."

"That makes sense," Jason said after a period of silence.

"You've come a long way in a month, yourself," Eli said. "I can tell you're not as angry."

"You're doing really well," Tammie added. She tossed a lock of long blond hair behind the chair. "You've stopped glowering at all of us."

Dr. Dodson then spoke up. "Let's go around the group and see how everyone else is doing. Mari?"

"Well, I'm excited. Tomorrow is my husband's first birthday." The rest of the group applauded. John felt confused for a second before he realized that she was probably referring to a complete year of sobriety due to some detox program. "He hasn't had any alcohol in a year."

"What are you doing for it?" asked Peter.

"We're going out to dinner with his best friend and his son."

"His son or the friend's son?" John asked in confusion.

Mari chuckled. "The friend's son."

"Didn't you tell us the friend walked in on something once? At home?" Eli said.

Mari's smile flattened. "Yes. He walked into my husband's bedroom when he was a teenager. Unfortunately his mum was in there as well."

"Nothing happened to his friend, did it?" Jason said worriedly.

"No. He just ran out of the house, threw up, and headed home. It eats at him still that he didn't do anything."

"He couldn't have done much himself," said Dr. Dodson. "In those days it was hard enough for most people to wrap their minds around the idea of incest, much less the idea the perpetrator could be a woman."

"He knows that, but it still gets to him at times."

"Emotional reasoning," Dr. Dodson said. He looked over at Eli.

"No new news here," Eli said. "Her brother's staying with us for a few days - not any crisis in his family, he's just got work for a few days in London - and it's nice having him around. It's eerie how much they look alike."

"Well, I've got an anniversary coming up, too," Peter said after a period of silence. "Next week it'll have been one year since the last hospitalization." The group gave him another round of applause. John wondered what it must be like in that relationship if that was a milestone.

"It was pretty bad for the two of you last year, right?" Rodney, a man with short spiked black hair with blond tips, asked.

"She was in there five times," Peter responded. "Once for about two weeks."

"That was the one where she walked in on you and the computer, right?" Tammie said. "You had to call 999."

"Yes," said Peter. "That was the one."

"Any celebration planned?" Mari said.

"We're planning a proper honeymoon." He grinned. "All over Europe. She's never been to the actual continent before."

"Are you engaged?" John asked.

Peter shook his head. "Married. For a year and a half now." He looked at Dr. Dodson. "She told me therapy is going well."

"I can confirm that," Dr. Dodson replied.

"Sometimes I have to not get angry when she tells me things. We went out with some friends a few days ago. She always just sits there and sips her drink, not saying anything. Anyway, the conversation got a bit raunchy. Someone brought up the topic of anal penetration. She didn't say anything then, but when we walked home she said to me: 'I don't know why anyone would like that myself. It's disgusting.' I realize there's only one way she could know that, because I'm the first person she dated." He sighed.

"But I thought it was a woman," Rodney suddenly said. Peter gestured to his fingers. Rodney blushed. "Sorry, that was a stupid question." After Dr. Dodson looks at him Rodney adds "Not anything big. Been pretty quiet actually. She's gone to work every day this week."

"Speaking of women, as you all know my fiance is going to testify against the woman who abused him in a week or two," Gloria said.

"Is your fiance nervous about testifying?" Jason asked.

"Very. I keep telling him that it'll help all the other kids she could hurt and that helps." If anyone in the room knew it was the trial that was all over the news they didn't mention it. They all listened to Gloria like it was new to them.

"Have things been any worse?" Eli asked.

"Not really. His brother's living with us now though. He's detoxing. He's really good with our son, which is nice. Not all of it's nice. They talk to each other a lot. Sometimes they both start crying. I think when I'm not around they talk more about their former foster mother."

"Is he testifying?" said Mari.

"No. Just my fiance and his older sister."

"How long has his brother been living with you?" Mari continued to look at Gloria.

"A month. He's been in rehab six weeks now, but he was living on the street before then. We didn't think that was very good for him."

"Six weeks, wow. I wish it was more than two weeks at this point," said Tammie. "I didn't think going off the drink would be this bad. She snaps at anyone who comes near."

"I understand," sympathized John, who only realized after he said it was revealing something about himself.

"Your, um, friend?" From the way Tammie said it she clearly was unsure of what Sherlock's relation to John was.

"No. My sister."

Tammie caught something in his voice and said, "But it's your friend too, isn't it? You sound like it's something you're going through every day, like me."

"Cocaine," John said. "But my sister does drink as well." He looked down at his hands, wondering if he should have said something in the first place.

"You've got it from all angles, don't you?" Tammie commented. "I can't imagine dealing with two people going through this. As it is we're in separate bedrooms."

"My sister's wife left her because of the drinking, so yeah, I know what that's like." He paused. "Can we use names here?" he asked, already having noticed that no one ever gave the name of the person they were there to support.

"Our policy is to refer to the person we support by their relation to us," Eli told him. "It's their choice to be open about it, not ours."

"Then who's everyone here for?" As soon as he said it John knew it sounded idiotic, but there was no way to take it back.

"Wife," Eli said in response.

"Me too," said Peter.

"And me," Jason added.

"Husband," Mari said.

"Fiance, but you know that," Gloria said.

"Girlfriend," said Rodney.

"Same with me, although I might pop the question soon," Tammie finished.

"You sound like you want to talk about it, whatever it is," Rodney said.

"Sort of," John admitted. "He won't."

"Then how did you find out?" Jason didn't sound accusing but rather curious.

"His brother told me."

"The brother knew?" Eli said.

"He found out because someone else told their mother." John was uncomfortably aware that everyone's eyes were now on him.

"It's obviously weighing on your mind a lot," Dr. Dodson commented.

"Well, last night there was an incident..." John began, and before he knew it he was telling the group the whole story. And the whole group sat there and listened, and that broke the floodgates and then he was talking about the drunken kiss and the flashbacks and the knife to the sheets and Hamish the bee and how it was obvious that Sherlock wanted a relationship with him but just as clear he couldn't make himself be intimate. When he finally stopped, he looked at the clock and realized he'd been talking for over twenty minutes. John then looked back at the group and none of them looked surprised. In fact, Peter and Mari were both nodding sagely.

"You're in the thick of it," Peter said. "I can remember having the exact same conversation."

"You got married, so you must have worked some of that out," John said. He wondered what the solution was for him.

"Well, she does see a therapist." He looked back at Dr. Dodson before speaking again. "They've agreed to not bring up any of those issues unless she does it. That hasn't happened yet, by the way, but there's been progress."

While John desperately wanted to ask, he didn't think just saying, "So how did you two get to have sex?" would be anything but rude. Instead he asked the highly sanitized, "Intimacy?"

"You mean sex, right," Peter said in a way that indicated he had seen this coming. "Haven't solved it yet."

"And you've been married for a year and a half?"

"Yup," he replied, smiling. "There's more to love than sex."

"I know. He's just so obsessed with it and he keeps saying he can't give me what I need."

"If it was really going on for years it's going to take a much longer time to deal with it, especially since you said that he's never talked about it before," Mari broke in.

"I understand. It's just... he's in so much pain. I want it to stop." John blinked away the tears in his eyes.

"It will," Eli said firmly.

"It'll take time though," Rodney added.

"We're out of time for today," Dr. Dodson said. Everyone got up to leave, but before John could go out the door the doctor gestured for him to come back. John walked back over to stand before him. "It sounds like your friend needs individual therapy, but it also sounds like he'd resist it."

"That's true," John responded.

"Do you think he'd be more comfortable if there was an agreement like the one mentioned before? It's never brought up unless he brings it up first?"

John shook his head. "He'd never see anyone to talk about anything personal."

"Are you coming back?"

"Yes," John firmly replied. "All this... helped." A thought occured to him and before he could think twice he asked: "Peter and Mari both said that their spouse was abused by a woman. How often do you see that?"

Dr. Dodson didn't seem to be bothered by his question. "With males I treat? I'd say almost eighty percent." John must have looked surprised, because he followed that with, "It's more common than you think. In this group it's half. Eli and Gloria both have a spouse in that category."

"It's not something I thought about until recently," John admitted. He turned and started towards the door

"I'l see you next Sunday, then," Dr. Dodson said as he walked to the door with John.

John stayed silent the whole way home, thinking about everything that the group had said. It had helped, even he had to admit that. It wasn't until he was actually walking up the steps that he wondered how Sherlock was doing now. He tried to tell himself that if anything horrible had happened he'd have heard about it by now, but the feeling didn't subside until he got through the door and found Sherlock asleep on the sofa, using Hamish for a pillow. For some reason that made him feel more calm than he had in days, and he went to prepare lunch thinking that he might be inching towards a solution.


End file.
